


Survival is a Fool's Reward

by Ebozay



Series: Survival [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azgeda Clarke Griffin, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Mystery, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-21 05:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: With Azgeda under the rule of King Roan peace may now last. Clarke, having become equal parts ambassador and warrior champion of Azgeda, finds that her days are now spent in the company of other clan ambassadors who see fit to question every decision she makes. And so, when Clarke stumbles across a mystery, a puzzle to be solved and a threat she can not ignore, she leaps feet first into the adventure.But when the  puzzle pieces finally fall into place? Clarke could never anticipate that the fate of those she cares for would be determined by a question only she could answer.





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke’s feet move slowly, surely, her ears quick to pick up each little sound that echoes out through the halls of Polis tower. She pauses by the bend though, and she lets her eyes adjust to the dimmed lights, to the torches that still burn, that flicker and send their shadows across the stone that cools her feet. 

It only takes her a moment longer before her ears pick up the telltale drip, the telltale sound of her prey and so she lets her breath slow, she lets her mind ease into the motions she knows she must make, must execute to succeed. 

And so she slips forward, each shadow swallowing her as she moves from crook to crook through the halls, her furs muffling each step she takes. She feels the excitement too, she feels the thrill, the beating of her heart and she can’t help but to let the smile sneak its way upon her lips as she rounds the last of the bends in the hall.

And she sees it. 

She sees the woman walking down the hall, a towel wrapped around slender shoulders and muscled arms, the glint of water beads catching the light enough to send slivers of brightness bouncing across the stone. 

Clarke pauses once more though, and she eyes the woman’s step, the way she pauses mid motion, for just long enough that Clarke knows her presence is sensed.

And so she lunges, she dashes from the shadows, but she knows her presence is registered, is recognised, is categorised and reacted to. And so the woman snaps around swiftly, one hand clutching at the towel as her eyes dart from shadow to shadow, and Clarke sees the eyes snap to hers, she sees the frustration, the annoyance, the subtle shock.

But she doesn’t quite care. 

And so they crash together, but Clarke feels the woman roll, she feels the woman brace herself, absorb the shock of the impact and fall backwards with ease, with too much ease for how undressed she may be.

Clarke’s hand snatches out for purchase then, if only because she feels the woman slipping away, she feels the woman snaking out of her grasp, out of her reach.

And before she knows it, Clarke finds herself pinned to the ground, a knee pressed to her throat, a hand raised, poised and ready to strike.

“You will have to do better than that if you are to sneak up on me,” the woman says simply, her eyes flashing in the torch light.

“I knew it,” Clarke hisses in turn, and she is sure she sees the woman’s lips turn up at the corners just a little as her hand lowers, as her breathing settles easily, quickly.

“You knew what?” the woman questions, the raising of a chin and the quirking of an eyebrow all that she lets free.

“I knew you were stealing my towels,” Clarke says as she comes to sit up, her hand reaching out to inspect the warmth and the softness of the towel still clinging to the woman’s body. 

And so the woman smiles, she leans forward just a little, just enough that her lips brush against the scars that slash down Clarke’s forehead.

“It is not my fault your towels were simply mixed up with the others,” Lexa says.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a quiet and cold night, each breath feathers against the back of her neck, brushes against the shell of her ear, and Clarke can’t help but to lean back into the pressure behind her, into the warmth, into the beat of the heart pressed against her shoulder blades.

Torvun grunts out quietly as her body shifts against his, each quiet breath that leaves his lips sending a warmth down Clarke’s neck that she finds herself sinking deeper and deeper into. And she can’t help but to whimper, to moan just a little as his arms wrap around her and as his beard brings even more warmth to the back of her neck as he presses a chilled cheek to the furs that wrap them both.

But Clarke grimaces, too, she can’t help but to feel the twitching of her lip, and the grimace at the slightest bit of pain at the stretch as Entani moves against her then, as the other healer presses closer, as her breath seems to sink into the very fibres of her body as they grow closer and closer and closer.

A gasp comes next, and it’s quiet, it’s careful, it’s just a little bashful and far too close for Clarke to ignore.

And so she can’t help but to frown as Ontari’s braids fall against her face, as the other woman’s lips seem to press against her nose, and as she presses as close as possible as flesh finds flesh, and as cold breath is shared between quivering bodies.

“Ontari,” Clarke can’t help but to whisper out into the quiet, “Ontari,” she repeats as the other woman simply ignores her and continues to press closer, more firmly, more wanting in her desires for bodily contact. “Ontari. Stop moving,” and it rolls off her tongue far too biting for her to suppress, but Clarke can’t be blamed, for she feels Ontari’s knee digging into her stomach, she feels Entani’s shin press between her legs, and she feels Torvun’s knife as it digs into her lower back with each shifting of their bodies.

“It is your fault,” Ontari replies with little more than mouthed breath, her cold lips seemingly finding even more of her exposed face from where their cheeks remained pressed together.

“No it isn’t,” and it wasn’t, not quite, at least.

“It is, Clarke,” Entani says as the healer sneaks her hands deeper into the furs they share.

“You’re the one who wanted to try to make it to their hunting grounds before nightfall,” Clarke retorted as she felt the faintest speck of ice fall onto her forehead.

“You are the one who chose this spot to dig for the night,” Ontari answers, and Clarke grimaces as she feels Ontari’s chin dig into her cheek as she shifts in search of a more comfortable position.

And perhaps Clarke can’t blame Entani and Ontari. Perhaps she can’t even blame Torvun and his quiet acceptance of their predicament.

But perhaps Clarke can resent.

And so, as Torvun’s body continues to take up far too much of the small space they had dug into the snow for the night, as Ontari’s body presses too firmly into her own, and as Entani’s legs seem to stretch Clarke’s own body out in an attempt to make room, Clarke finds herself wistful in thought as she ponders what it must be like to not have to worry about being eaten by a mutated beast, or freezing to death in the wilderness of the Norther Plains.

But what more is she than a fool seeking a reward?

 

* * *

 

Sunlight sparkles and echoes off the snow as far as her eyes can see. Each little reflection seems to bring with it a colour too vibrant for Clarke to gaze upon for longer than a few short moments before her eyes water and sting.

A gust of wind picks up then, and with it comes a shiver and a gasp that Clarke finds familiar now that she has spent the last few days tracking her prey. Ontari stumbles then, the woman curses and groans at the way her furs don’t quite hold back the cold, and Clarke can’t stifle the laugh as Ontari flings snow up in the air in annoyance.

But despite the days they have spent in the Northern Plains, despite the isolation and the cold, the buffeting winds and the constant feeling of being followed, Clarke finds that she feels alive, more carefree, more at ease with her surroundings than she has felt in months.

And perhaps that feeling is due to the lack of ambassadors that constantly belittle her, that think she is nothing but an unthinking warrior, someone who knows nothing but death and violence.

And perhaps they are right, at least partly, if only because she can’t deny the fact that she has considered ordering any one of her clan’s assassins to Polis.

But, she can’t complain, not much and not at all. And Clarke finds she can’t complain for the simple fact that Azgeda has thrived since Nia’s death, that the clans have seen more trade with the help of Skaikru’s tech, that clans once reliant on others for food can now begin to grow where once it was impossible.

But Clarke is also no fool, for she knows some grounders see the change as blasphemy, as an erosion of their way of life. But in time, she hopes, things will settle, that the changing of the times will be seen as a welcome reprieve from the constant battle for survival.

And yet, she thi——

Torvun stops suddenly, and Clarke grimaces as her face bumps into his back, into a hard edge of a sword strapped to his body. But Clarke thinks she hears it, she thinks she feels the vibrations in the air, the quiet rumble that just barely gives way to whatever presence is near. Clarke looks out around her, she sees Ontari already drawing an arrow, she sees Entani readying her spear, tip glinting and glaring fiercely in the sun light. Her hand falls to her knife strapped to her thigh, and she shrugs off her bow. And she waits.

Torvun’s body begins to shift ever so slightly as he eyes the far side of the snow dune they stand upon, she feels his body beginning to strum with anticipation, and she can’t even deny the excitement and the fear that begins to spike through her veins, that makes her blood begin to flush and flow to the very corners of her body.

And the next few moments seem to last a lifetime, for Clarke is sure she could see every little detail that flashes past her eyes. But she knows it to be nothing more than a blink of an eye.

A roar echoes out around them, something deep and loud and fierce, deafening and full of fury and desperation.

Ontari yelps in shock and surprise, and if Clarke was safe behind an army, if she wasn’t knee deep in snow, or if she was in her quarters in Polis tower she would have laughed, would have doubled over at the sound that escapes Ontari’s mouth. But she’s not, and she’s not and she is sure she screams out in shock, too.

And she does because an eruption of snow explodes in front of them, particles of the white, glistening and sparkling, shimmering and dancing in the sun soar through the air and blind her sight for longer than she likes.

A shadow moves through the haze, its body large, lumbering, elegant and precise. But Clarke sees the eyes, she sees the fangs, the jaws, the lips that pull back in anticipation of the blood that will wet its maws.

Ontari jumps forward then, an arrow flashes out, and Clarke sees the beast swipe it away as little more than annoyance, even Entani leaps forward, the healer’s spear thrusting out, the tip aimed squarely for the beast’s neck, but it rounds on them as easily as it exploded from where it had hidden in the snow. And Clarke can’t help but to grimace as she feels the snow give way under her, she can’t help but to cry out in panic as she feels her body begin to slip, but still, she draws an arrow, she aims it for the beast, and she pauses for only a moment longer, until she is sure Entani won’t be hit, that Ontari won’t stand in the path of her arrow. And then Clarke fires. She fires, and her eyes follow the arrow as it zips forward, as it crashes through the air, and as it slams into the beasts shoulder.

And Clarke will celebrate drawing the beast’s blood at a later time, at a time when Ontari and Entani don’t seem to be tumbling down the side of the snow dune, where they aren’t falling head over heels, arms and hair and fur and weapons flying in every direction as they tumble and tumble and fall with the avalanche of snow that carries them away and away. And Clarke will celebrate not having been eaten mere moments ago when Torvun isn’t flying through the air, when his sword had only just found flesh on the beast’s forearm, when his body doesn’t seem to weigh anything more than a bundle of sticks as it spins and turns through the air.

And Clarke will most certainly celebrate at a later time, when she isn’t being taken down the other side of the snow dune, when she isn’t struggling to stay atop the blankets of snow that pull her further and further and further away from her friends.

And Clarke will celebrate.

If she doesn’t die.

 

* * *

 

There’s perhaps two things Clarke hates in the world. The first being the way certain ambassadors see fit to second guess every deal she negotiates on behalf of Roan, every word she says during meetings or the fact that they simply ignore her presence. The second is the fact that she doesn’t quite have the authority to kick them from the top of Polis tower, or even to simply sneak into their quarters and slip a knife between sleeping ribs.

But Clarke thinks she’s found a knew thing to detest, a new thing to resent.

And so she curses, she stumbles and she spits out a mouthful of muddy snow as she rolls to her feet and continues to plow through the snow piles before her, each leaping step she takes bringing her tiring limbs closer and closer to their breaking point.

The roar echoes out around her, its sound carries through the snow and the cold continues to bite into her flesh. But she ignores it as much as she ignores the blood that drips from her forehead, that continues burning in the corner of her eye.

Clarke slips then, she slides and she finds herself falling down and down and over the edge of a small ridgeline that bottoms out into the harshness of a frozen lake, whose surface is rough and glimmering to the sun that sits too happily overhead.

But she hears and feels the thudding, she even senses the prickling in the air and so Clarke grimaces as she comes to her shaky feet and turns to face the beast that had been trying to eat her for the last hundred paces she had dashed.

Its eyes are ferocious, its lips pull back to expose snarling teeth, gnashing and twisted to the radiation. Its body seems to shift and shiver to the cold, but Clarke is sure it feels none of the biting chill as it starts to take cautious step after cautious step towards her, its large feet helping to spread its weight over the frozen water’s surface.

Clarke finds, not for the first time, that she curses the fact that she had fallen over the wrong side of the snow dune, that she had been cursed to tumble left when Ontari and Entani had fallen right, when Torvun had tried to distract the animal only to be flung head over heels somewhere into the billowing of the white.

But most of all?

She curses the fact that she thought it a good idea to take on the Northern Hunts, all in the name of giving the Commander a gift for their anniversary.

And so she draws her knife, she lets the tip glint in the sunlight and she lets her breathing still and steady as she focuses her gaze onto the beast that inches forward. Its breath fogs and rises before its face, its eyes narrow, each paw print left behind in the soft dusting of snow too large, too dwarfing for Clarke to really comprehend. But she thinks she sees its body shift, she thinks she sees its weight change slightly, just enough that she knows a strike, a charge, an attack is soon to come.

Clarke continues to take cautious step after cautious step backwards, for she knows facing the beast head on to be foolish, to be a stupid task, but still, she finds herself unsure of how to fight, unsure of how to battle something so large she was sure it could tear her in half and eat her torso or her legs with little trouble.

Her foot slips then, and she grimaces as her knee strikes the frozen and harsh surface of the lake she stands upon. The beast must sense where they are though, it must understand the danger, for it pauses for a moment, its snout presses to the ice and Clarke thinks she sees it take a moment to judge, to gauge, to war with its own survival instincts.

And perhaps the only way she can survive is to draw it closer, if only because she is sure that neither of them being able to stand without sliding is better than her continuing to be chased until her legs give out.

And so Clarke grits her teeth, curses the fact that all her arrows are broken, snapped and destroyed from her fall, and she wonders and prays and hopes that Torvun and Ontari, Entani will find her soon.

The beast takes a step forward, and Clarke sees its paws spread its weight, she sees it lower itself ever so slightly to the surface of the ice, and, if Clarke were a fool she would think she sees it smile, sees its lips twitch up at the corners.

But she thinks herself not.

And so she takes a steadying breath, she settles her stance, and she tries to calm her thoughts as muc—

She isn’t so sure whether she heard or felt it, but she knew she registered it.

And again.

The beast pauses, too, and Clarke thinks it takes her only a moment longer to realise what that noise, what that feeling reverberating beneath her feet must mean.

She spares barely a second to take her eyes from the beast, she eyes the ice beneath her, and she can’t quite tell whether it’s fear, it’s relief, or some other form of emotion that takes hold of her body.

But she is sure it to be a sign, a hand reached out to her in this god forsaken desolation.

Clarke smirks something feral, something desperate, something honed from years of surviving the cold of Azgeda winds.

And so Clarke roars, she begins to rush towards the beast with whatever strength she can muster in the moment.

And she’ll worry about the ice cracking beneath her when it breaks.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke’s footsteps echo out around her, each sound rings out with a rhythm, a dance, a beat that sets her heart at ease and puts her mind to rest. And it does so for the fact that voices don’t carry as far in the depths of the Azgeda capital, words aren’t hissed with annoyance, where ambassador after ambassador deems it suitable to argue at any time of day.

And so Clarke smiles, she nods to a passing warrior whose face is scarred, whose hair is braided back out of her eyes, and whose furs swish ever so gently with each step she takes.

Clarke walks with the barest hints of a limp though, and she does for the beast had struck her, had tried to maim, to kill, to drown her as they had both crashed through the surface of the frozen lake. But Clarke didn’t die, she wasn’t maimed, wasn’t drowned and didn’t bleed out in the frozen plains of the far north.

She can’t even quite stifle the laugh at the memory of Ontari who had seen her emerge from the frozen water, who had seemed far too impressed, too thrilled, too flushed at the sight before her.

“Wanheda,” Clarke pauses at the call, she turns and she finds a warrior walking her way, his gaze moving from Torvun then back to her for just a moment.

“Yes?” Clarke says.

“King Roan calls for you in the throne room,” the warrior says as he bows his head. “It is not urgent.”

“Ok,” and Clarke nods. “I’ll be there soon,” and so the warrior bows once more before turning and moving through the hallway. “We’re being sent back to Polis,” Clarke says as the guard turns a corner. “Aren’t we?”

“That would be a wise guess,” Torvun says, and Clarke looks up at the man, whose chest seems far too broad, whose beard seems even longer than when she had first seen him, and whose bald head gleams and dances to the firelight of the flames that burn in sconces hanging from the walls.

“Yeah,” and Clarke sighs as she tucks her hands into her furs, “I guess we should go find Ontari and Entani.”

 

* * *

 

The throne room looks exactly the same as the last time Clarke had set foot in it, the large fire pit in the centre burns and crackles, the furs and tapestries that hang from the ceiling and walls sway ever so gently to the breeze that wends its way through the open space, and the guards that stand to the side, that eye and gauge, judge and take heed of every person that passes, remain ever silent and ready.

“King Roan,” Clarke says as she comes to a stop before the man, hair pulled back in a single braid, leathered torso, and lightly armour forearms swinging a sword, fierce and deadly in the firelight.

“Clarke,” he says as he ducks the swing of an attacker, whose body shifts, spins and dances just out of reach before Roan can retaliate.

Clarke feels Ontari beside her begin to pay more attention to the attacker, begin to try to discern a pattern, and she thinks she senses Entani’s preparation to step in, to provide aid if needed.

“You sent for me,” and Clarke lets her hands rest upon her hips as she takes in the way Roan moves, attacks and defends.

“I did,” and Roan strikes out with a hand, catches the opponent off guard and causes him to stumble back just enough for Roan to pounce, to slam a fist down on the hands wrist and open his defences enough to have a sword levelled at his throat.

“I yield,” the warrior says.

“Leave us,” Roan’s voice calls out then, and Clarke watches as the warrior bows, picks his sword up and begins to move to the exit as guards follow.

Clarke knows their presence to be guarded, even still, and she knows members of the Royal guard must still be hidden within earshot, within sight, somewhere within the walls, in the shadows, in the ceilings even. And perhaps she thinks she will try to pry those secrets from Torvun in the privacy of the open, of the lands, where being overheard by others need not be a concern.

“So,” and Roan turns his attention to Clarke before taking a moment to look between the others that stand beside her. “You are all called Clarke?” he asks, an eyebrow raising ever so slightly as he looks from Ontari and Entani.

“I—” but Ontari’s words die in her throat, her voice comes out startled, panicked, even. And so Ontari’s next words come out rushed and frantic. “Forgive me, King Roan, I did not realise you meant for only Clarke to be present, we will leave, I did not mean to assu—”

“I am joking, Ontari,” Roan says as he raises a hand a turns to his thrown. “Every Azgeda knows where Wanheda goes, her shadows are never far.”

Entani snickers ever so quietly at that, and Clarke can’t help but to feel just a little sympathy for Ontari who seems to deflate, who seems to shrink away from the attention drawn to her in the moment.

“Your Northern Hunts were successful,” Roan says as he takes a seat in the throne, surface covered in the pelt of a might beast.

“They were,” Clarke answers and she finds herself trying to discern just how close to death they had all come at the hands of the elements or that of a hungry beast.

“It is talk of the Capital,” Roan continues. “The mighty Wanheda and her band of warriors return with a beast larger than most have ever seen, whose body bore no signs of wounds, who was struck down by her power alone,” and Roan’s eyes seem to hold a mirth, a jest, something full of humour.

“Yeah,” and Clarke shrugs, she fights the smile that threatens to break across her lips.

“It drowned,” Roan says and he laughs. “That is the only way you were able to kill it, yes?” and Clarke wonders just what has been said about her exploits during the Northern Hunts.

“I can’t really confirm how we killed it,” Clarke says.

“Very well,” and Roan pulls a leg up so that his ankle rests atop his knee, his fingers begin to tap ever so slightly against the throne’s armrest and he looks up into the morning light streaming in from an open window far up in the ceiling. “Your secret is safe with me, Clarke.”

“That’s good to know,” and she looks to Entani to find the healer eyeing a bruise that seems to be spreading across Roan’s cheek.

“I am returning you to Polis,” Roan says then, and Clarke holds back the sigh just barely as he looks back to her. “You have been gone long enough.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke rolls her shoulders for a moment as she tries to settle her thoughts.

Roan looks around himself for a long moment then, and Clarke thinks she senses a distinct shifting of his emotions, of his demeanour, and she knows Ontari and Entani react to it, too, if only because they seem to step just barely closer to themselves, and Clarke feels Torvun, ever quiet behind her, seemingly take in all that surround them.

But Roan’s gaze snaps back to her, and gone is the mirth, is the humour.

“Leave us,” he calls out, “everyone.”

Clarke looks to Torvun for a moment to find him eyeing the shadows before he bows and turns to leave, Ontari and Entani in tow, their glances curious but guarded. Even the last of the guards, those who had been hidden seem to appear out of nowhere as they begin to make their way to the exit.

And so Clarke looks back to Roan, she waits until she hears the last of the footsteps fade before speaking.

“What’s going on?”

“While you were on your hunts,” Roan begins. “Echo was ensuring no one in Polis made moves to threaten Azgeda sovereignty.”

“I wouldn’t think they would, even with me gone.”

“Not openly,” Roan says.

“What?” and Clarke takes a step closer as she lowers her voice. “You think clans would try to start a war again?”

“No,” Roan answers, “but I would not risk it.”

“And why would they do it when I’m gone?” Clarke asks. “If it’s all secret, what’s to stop them from doing it secretly with me there?”

“Some fear you and your power,” Roan says, and it comes out fact, but still, Clarke can’t help but to roll her eyes.

“So that’s it?” Clarke asks. “Echo found a plan, some one is trying to weaken Azgeda?”

“Not quite,” and Roan comes to stand, he pulls out two radios from behind the furs he sits upon.

“Radios?”

“Yes,” and Roan stops in front of her, both radios held out for her to inspect.

“And?” Clarke can’t help but to let her confusion show now, if only because she knows what radios are, knows what they do and sees no sign of strangeness.

“Raven showed Echo exactly how to use this tech,” Roan began. “As she did with all those given access to it, from all clans.”

“She did,” and Clarke looks up with a curiosity and an uncertainty.

“Echo would not forget how to use them, she would not accidentally wield a piece of tech.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“We use these radios to talk between Polis and the Capital,” Roan continues. “They must remain the same so that communication is not broken, so that changes to current trade routes, treaties, negotiations can happen as quickly as possible. It is for the betterment of the entire Coalition.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke looks down to the radios again. “I’m sorry, Roan,” Clarke looks the man in the eyes. “But I’m not following.”

“Look at the markings Raven made, to show where to turn this,” and Roan points to a dial on the radio’s face, “so that it can join with this radio.”

And Clarke follows Roan’s finger from dial to dial to find that they don’t line up to the same signal, that one seems to have been moved just a fraction.

“Echo could have knocked it?” Clarke offers.

“She did not,” Roan says, and Clarke feels the conviction in his voice.

“So what?” and Clarke looks away for a moment to think. “You think someone is messing with our ability to talk?”

“I do not know what to think,” Roan says. “But I am not so foolish as to leave any chance of Azgeda being attacked un-investigated.”

“And no one else knows about this?” Clarke asks.

“No one does.”

“So,” and Clarke takes a moment to think of how to go about doing whatever it was Roan expected her to do. “Now what?”

“Investigate,” Roan says, and it comes out simple. “You were the one to tell me that ambassadors have threatened us in the past, that they talk over you when they please, seem to think you are nothing but a killer, that you have no place negotiating for Azgeda in Polis.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke can’t help but to feel the flash of annoyance at the memories.

“I do not wish for my paranoia to be confirmed,” Roan says as he turns from her and takes a few steps to his throne. “I do not wish for my distrust of everything to be confirmed,” and he sighs as he comes to sit in his throne. “But I would rather have my paranoia be nothing more than the echoes of a false shadow, then one that would give way to an assassin hiding in our midsts.”

And Clarke can’t help but to roll her eyes, can’t help but to think Roan’s words just a little dramatic.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I am now King,” Roan says as he sweeps his hands out before him. “Am I not allowed to play the part?” and he laughs lightly. “Go to the capital, Clarke,” he continues. “Prove me wrong, prove me nothing but an old man that sees things that do not exist.”

 

* * *

 

The Azgeda winds whistle through the air with little worry for the warriors that ride out the capital gates. The day’s sun beats down upon their shoulders and it seems not to care for the cold, for the furs or the snow that drifted over the lands. Clarke rides at the head of the convoy of warriors, just over a hundred at her back. Each one a fierce warrior that had seen battle with her during the Mountain, or during the hunt for the last of the Mountain Men. Familiar faces dot those she rides with, too, Jenma and Bronat and Leeton seemingly having found a place amongst those that now call themselves Wanheda’s guard.

But at her side ride Ontari and Entani, Torvun ever present behind them, and Clarke finds herself thinking over what Roan had said, what he suspected, and what it could mean for Azgeda in the coming days and weeks.

Ontari eyes her curiously though, and Clarke can’t help but to sigh, to try not to let her worry show too openly upon her face.

“Will you tell us what King Roan said?” Ontari asks quietly as she pulls her horse ever so slightly closer to her.

“In time,” Clarke answers as she shifts the skull that rests behind her neck, as she pulls the pelt of the beast she had killed long ago more tightly around her shoulders. “When we make camp,” and she looks behind her to see some warriors in happy conversation, other’s spinning knives through fingers, and some even riding on their horses backwards as they talked with those close to them.

And Clarke finds that she likes the ease in which her warriors now travel, that they seem to sense a peace is building, ever so slowly, ever so easily over the lands. But, violence still exists, and would always exist, if only because bandits would always roam the lands, those banished from their clans for crimes, or from those that harboured ancient hates, whose origin was long muddied by generations of fairytales.

But still, Clarke thinks she enjoys the scene behind her.

“We’re making a stop at Ton DC and Arkadia before going to Polis,” Clarke calls out, and she sees some groan, some in half jest, some a little more seriously at the days added to their journey. “No complaining,” Clarke says, and she enjoys the ease in which her warriors feel, but she knows each one would be willing to fight to the very end by her side if need be. “Anyone I catch complaining has to do the hunting for two nights in a row.”

 

* * *

 

They make camp at a rocky outcrop where Azgeda snow plains begin to bleed into the sparse beginnings of the trees that turn into flowing forests. The wind seems to have settled a little, the moon already finding a place to rest in the sky and the stars seem to exist somewhere far away in the depths of space.

Clarke leans back in her chair, the fire that burns in the centre of her large tent enough to send warmth to the every little nook and cranny of her tent. Ontari sits behind Entani, both women close to the fire opposite Clarke, and she finds herself happy to watch as Ontari’s fingers card through Entani’s braids, as she begins to unravel them, to ease them into something a little more comfortable for the night.

Torvun sits closest to the door, one hand ever present upon the knife strapped to his hip, his sword resting not far from reach, but Clarke thinks an attack not so likely, and yet, she can’t blame Torvun for turning to old habits, to old comforts.

“We’ll arrive at Ton DC in the next day, hopefully,” Clarke says. “If we ride hard enough.”

“If you wish for us to arrive at Ton DC in the next day, then we will do so,” Ontari says in answer as she peeks around Entani’s head.

Clarke brings a spoonful of warm broth to her lips then, and she can’t help but to moan a little as the tastes explode across her tongue.

“Why do we travel to Ton DC? To Arkadia?” Entani questions past the slight wince as Ontari pulls her hair just a touch too roughly in her attempts to tame the curls and locks.

Clarke takes a moment to think then, if only because she finds herself still not so sure of Roan’s wariness, his concern. But she can’t blame him, could never blame him for simply wanting what was best for their people.

And so, “Roan thinks someone tried to mess with the radios while we were gone,” and Clarke makes sure her voice stays low and quiet.

“Why would he think that?” Ontari asks.

“There were signs that someone was fiddling around with them, using them when they weren’t supposed to,” and Clarke shrugs as she thinks over the situation. “It could just have been someone curious about them, a child, a servant, someone who never got to see tech up close before,” and she eyes the way Torvun glances outwards and to the shadow of a warrior that walks past outside.

“But King Roan believes someone interferes?” Ontari presses.

“He isn’t taking any chances,” and Clarke stirs her bowl for a moment. “That’s why we’re going to Ton DC, and to Arkadia first,” and she takes another bite. “I’ll see if anything is happening there, anything suspicious, at least it’ll give us an idea about what to expect, good or bad, once we get to Polis.”

“A wise decision, mighty Wanheda,” Entani says, and Clarke finds herself smiling at the jest in the healer’s voice.

“I thought so,” she answers with a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Noise seems to drone on, each voice merely adding to the headache that was ever present during clan meetings. A warrior’s barking threat echoes out around the throne room, and she can’t help but to feel an anger, an annoyance, something hot and tempered with rage beginning to build.

Her hand rises then, the motion slow, measured, simple. But the motion is clear enough for all to see, and so it doesn’t surprise her when the voices quieten in quick succession.

“Elios,” Lexa calls out. “Speak your troubles.”

“Heda,” the man says, and Lexa watches with intent as he steps forward, his slender frame snakelike, his eyes sharp and wicked in the light as he sneers at the closest ambassador that glares his way. “With no disrespect,” and he bowed his head, the five dots that arced across his forehead glinting in the firelight. “We do not wish for Skaikru’s help when it comes to matters internal to the clan.”

“And why do you not wish for their help?” Lexa questions and she eyes the way Elios’ guard steps just slightly closer to the ambassador, the guard’s hand resting atop the knife strapped to his hip as he eyes the growing anger in another warrior close by.

“Glowing Forest has survived for generations without tech,” he says simply. “We survived the Mountain. We survived Azgeda’s plot to throw the Coalition into chaos twice,” and he pauses, looks around himself for a moment. “There are others here that agree with what I say.”

“Who here agrees with ambassador Elios?” Lexa calls out, and she looks from face to face she sees before settling on Elios once more. “Anyone?”

“You are all cowards,” Elios snaps. “You do not wish to stand behind the customs of your clan? You are willing to throw that all aside simply because Skaikru comes with tech that has caused nothing but strife for our people?”

Lexa sits back a little further in her throne as Elios continues to argue his position, and she can’t help but to agree, at least somewhat, if only because the clans had survived for generations, had been able to thrive, and that tech had been perhaps one of the sole things to throw their world into chaos, from the Mountain, to the appearance of Skaikru. And yet, Lexa also knows the benefits, the advantages tech could have.

But her gaze snaps to Elios’ guard who stands close behind his ambassador. And Lexa begins to think over all she knows of the man, of his measured personality, his quiet, his ease at times, and his quiet contemplation, but, she also sees his annoyance, his frustrations at the words Elios says. And so, as the man rolls his eyes ever so subtly she feels it time to attack.

“Ilian,” Lexa says, and she watches as he looks up, as he glances once to Elios who quietens. “What is your opinion on the matter of Skaikru tech being forced upon all clans?”

And Lexa can’t help but to feel just a faint spark of satisfaction at the way Elios glares before sitting.

“It is good for our people,” Ilian says, and Lexa thinks she believes what he says. “It has helped the clans that can not grow root and vegetable. It has helped provide healers, and care for our injured when they would be maimed, when they would have once never fought, never rode, never travelled or survived.”

“But?” and Lexa looks around to the other ambassadors that seem to take in what Ilian says.

“There is no but, Heda,” and Ilian bows his head. “Forgive me ambassador Elios,” he adds quietly as Elios turns and glares more harshly at him. “Heda asked my opinion and I gave it.”

“I did, Ilian,” and Lexa lets her hand rise once more as she motions Ilian back. “We will continue this discussion further tomorrow,” and Lexa nods to the guards who stand by the throne room doors. “For now, enjoy the quiet, enjoy the peace,” and she can’t help but to smirk just a bit at the way some warriors groan ever so quietly for she knows they know what she is soon to say. “Azgeda will return to Polis in the days to come. Their warriors will not take kindly to some of what has been said of them.”


	4. Chapter 4

The moon sits somewhere overhead, its light casts deep shadows and Clarke lets the cool of the wind brush against her face as she leans back against the tree. Her legs sway lazily beneath her, the branch she sits in sturdy and barely swaying to the winds.

The forest stretches out before her, each tree ripples and dances, each shadow shifts and fades and bleeds into one another, and the birds, the animals and those that still sleep seem to spend the quiet of the night in peaceful company.

Light, a shining beacon, a flame that glows in the dark pierces the night in the greatest distance. Arkadia’s ever present glow, thought dimmed to the dark, reaches far, it casts the surrounding trees hazed by the distance in a glow that seems part mist, part dream and mirage. Ton DC lies somewhere in the distance between where Clarke finds herself resting and where she eyes Arkadia, but for now she takes a moment a enjoy the calm, to enjoy the peace, the quiet before whatever her life is sure to become.

“Where are your thoughts?” Ontari’s voice comes quietly, and Clarke looks down from where she perches to see Ontari looking up at her, the woman’s hands tucked into the white of her furs.

“I don’t know,” Clarke answers with a shrug. “Just thinking over what Roan said,” and she tried not to let Roan’s worries become hers, if only because she hoped them to be unfounded, to be the product of paranoia and not the product of recognised pattern.

“You think King Roan’s fears are just?” Ontari asks, and Clarke thinks she sees Ontari eye the closest branch, contemplates scaling it only to discard the idea with a distain that seems to sit far too openly on the woman’s face.

“I hope not,” Clarke says. “But we’ll find out.”

“And that is why we go to Ton DC?”

“Yeah,” and Clarke takes a moment to stretch, to let her bones creak, her muscles protest and her lungs to fill with the cold air before she drops from the branch and comes to stand in front of Ontari. “I want to see if Ton DC has had anything weird happen with their tech, and the same with Arkadia.”

“And that will give us reason to suspect foul play?” Ontari asks.

“I guess so,” and Clarke looks out to motion she hears only to find Entani fumbling through the underbrush with a scowl and the barest signs of tiredness.

“You sneak off without me, Ontari,” the healer says with a huff as she tries to tame a wild braid back into place.

“You were asleep,” Ontari challenges lightly.

“And now I am not.”

“So what are we going to do, Clarke?” Ontari says as she turns back to her.

“Hopefully nothing,” Clarke says and she can’t help but to smile as Entani’s eyes roll.

A low hoot echoes out around them, the sound comes from somewhere nearby, its tone deep, rich, birdlike and defiant.

“Someone approaches,” Torvun’s voice whispers from the shadows, and Clarke knows the man already moving to intercept, already moving to identify who it might be that treads the lands at such an hour.

Clarke watches Ontari’s gaze move out into the forest, the woman already preparing to strike, already preparing to defend if need be, and she even senses Entani shrinking into the shadows, her hand reaching for her ever present spear that had been hidden somewhere Clarke can’t even fathom.

And if Clarke was younger, if Clarke was less known to the world, she would have stayed where she was bathed in what little of the moon’s light that found its way to the forest floor. But she isn’t, and so she lets herself slip into a shadow close by, one hand dropping to the knife tucked close to her body.

The careful snapping of a twig sounds out around them, and Clarke knows it to be purposeful, and yet she remains quiet, eyes looking, searching. A body bleeds out from the shadows before her, eyes fierce in the dark of the night, body clad in dark leathers, furs and armour, brutal and defiant in their shape and tone. But Clarke recognises the woman, she recognises the way the bronzed tips of her hair catch the light.

“Anya,” Clarke calls out ever so quietly as she steps out from the shadows.

“Clarke,” Anya says as she turns her head to the sounds of Entani and Ontari who both come to step into the light.

“You’ve been following us?” Clarke asks, but she thinks she knows the answer already.

“My scouts follow everyone who moves through our lands,” Anya answers, and Clarke watches Anya greet both other women present with a subtle nod before her gaze turns back to her.

“You aren’t here to just say hi? Are you?”

“No,” Anya says simply. “You were being watched,” and Anya simply shrugs as Ontari grumbles out a quiet annoyance at that. “And when I was informed that you four had split off from your warriors in the middle of the night,” and Anya shrugs. “I thought it best to investigate.”

“I see,” and Clarke pauses for a moment as she listens to Torvun’s quiet birdcall, long enough to know that it means the all clear, that whoever else is nearby is friend and not foe.

“We expected you to come to Polis directly,” Anya continues, and Clarke watches as the woman rolls a shoulder for a moment as she comes to lean against a tree.

And Clarke takes just a moment to think of whether it useful to reveal Roan’s worries to Anya, but, as she continues to eye Anya for a moment she thinks it best to inform, if only because it could help shed even a little light on the issue at hand.

And so, “Roan is worried about a clan trying to take more control than they currently have,” Clarke begins, and she watches Anya’s eyebrow raise, she watches the woman’s eyes narrow, and she thinks she sees the barest hint of a snarl upon her lips.

“Who?” Anya says, and her voice comes out quiet.

“We don’t know,” Clarke answers with a shrug. “That’s why I’m going to Ton DC first, to look around, ask some questions,” and then she gestures to the glowing of Arkadia in the far distance. “And then to Arkadia, then we’ll come to Polis.”

“Why do you believe this?” Anya says, and Clarke sees the woman look pointedly to a shadow somewhere above, and Clarke knows Anya signals to a scout, a messenger perhaps.

And Clarke thinks it prudent to not reveal all, if only because she knew not if the fears were founded.

“It’s complicated,” Clarke says. “It could even be nothing,” and she sighs as Anya’s annoyance seems to grow. “Look, let me ask around, I’ll see if anything is dangerous or not. But for now there’s no need to go spreading panic to everyone else without any real proof or evidence to suggest something is happening.”

“You must know I will not keep this from Heda,” Anya says instead of agreeing with her.

“I know,” Clarke’s eyes close for a moment as she tries not to let the tiredness of her travels catch up to her.

“I will let you investigate in Ton DC, in Arkadia,” Anya says. “And I will inform Heda of what you do. But you will inform Heda, yourself, of what this plan is, regardless of what you find, when you return to Polis.”

Clarke’s gaze snaps to movement from the shadows to find a figure stepping out, leathers and weathered furs draped around a slender, lithe body, and it takes her only a moment longer before she recognises the telltale signs of hair, curled and pulled back in a single messy braid that flows down the woman’s back.

“Hello, Clarke,” Costia says as she comes to stand beside Anya, a small knife held between fingers as she trims the nails of her free hand carefully. Costia’s eyes narrow just a fraction as she pulls the knife away and holds her hand up to the moonlight as she inspects whatever trimmed cuts she has made. Clarke thinks Costia must be satisfied with the state of her nails for the motion lasts only a second before Costia flips the knife into her free hand and begins to trim the other nails.

Costia smirks for just a brief second as she looks to Ontari who stands beside Clarke, and Clarke is sure she sees Costia wink, and, as she spares a moment to look at Ontari from the corner of her eyes, she is sure she sees the tips of the woman’s ears reddening just barely in the moonlight.

 

* * *

 

The forest breathes around her, each flitting bird overhead blends into the shadows, each sound of hoof clipping against ground, and each neighing echo adds to the softness of the forest sounds.

Clarke rides at the head of her warriors, her shoulders squared, her eyes careful as she peers ahead. Ontari and Entani ride beside her, each one of them wary of the lands surrounding them, despite the company they kept. Torvun rides behind them, too, the man’s frame enough to cast a shadow across the ground that dwarfs Clarke’s.

Clarke looks up to the sound of a birdcall, something loud, something strong enough to cut through the thick of the forests around them, but she doesn’t mind, doesn’t even feel apprehension as shadows seem to move through the trees overhead, as Trikru scouts begin to make themselves known through movement.

Her hand rises, the motion lazy, easy, simple and well worn, and so it doesn’t surprise her when the motion is met by a deep horn blown from somewhere behind her, one of her warriors quick to follow her command.

Clarke smiles as the trees seemingly part before her very eyes, she smiles as the forest opens up to reveal gates already beginning to swing open with a low groan, and she smiles as she sees warriors, some familiar, who stand nearby, hands resting comfortably atop sword hilts, some leaning against trees close by.

The sounds of bustling life begin to reach her, too, and she hears yelling, laughter, the familiar clang of metal against metal and the distinct sound of flesh hitting flesh. She smells meats cooking, scents, spices and a myriad of other things all forming together to bring life to Ton DC that spreads out before her.

Warriors from other clans seem to be present, some from Glowing Forest, from Broadleaf, even from as far as Desert Clan, but that doesn’t surprise Clarke. Not when the Mountain has become a beacon of the Coalition, of what the clans can accomplish when united.

But she doesn’t miss the barest hints of wariness within the eyes of some clans whose past with Azgeda was violent, filled with death and anger and old grudges. And yet, she doesn’t quite seem to care. And so Clarke lets her shoulders square and her back straighten as she eases her horse to a slow stop.

“We make camp,” Clarke calls out over her shoulder and she sees some of her warriors already beginning to disembark. “For the next few days. Then we will travel to Polis, so enjoy the break, hunt, trade, do not cause trouble.”

Clarke dismounts, her feet hit the ground with a thud, and she feels Ontari and Entani, and Torvun come to stand beside her as she turns to face the presence she feels coming her way.

Indra walks forward, the older woman’s face cast in an ever present scowl, but her steps come eased and relaxed. Not to Clarke’s surprise, she finds Anya beside Indra, too, the woman having made it to Ton DC during the night.

“Clarke,” Indra says, and Clarke can’t help but to wonder if the woman ever relaxes, ever makes time for anything other than duty

“Indra,” Clarke says, hand extending, fingers already closing around Indra’s forearm.

“Anya has informed me,” Indra says simply, eyes just once gazing around them and to any eyes that may be present.

“We should talk in private,” Clarke says in answer, and she finds herself already feeling the barest signs of anxiousness taking hold, if only because she hopes to find no evidence or proof to confirm Roan’s fears.

 

* * *

 

The room they stand in brings memories forward, of times when they had planned battles against the Mountain. Hardly anyone else stands around the table where a map that seems permanently placed, dominates its surface with models, some large, some small, each one a landmark of the surrounding areas.

“Speak, Clarke,” Anya says, and Clarke looks from Anya to Indra and Costia, before taking a moment to hold the gaze of Ontari, Entani and Torvun.

“Roan believes someone is trying to sabotage our way of communicating,” Clarke begins.

“How?” Indra asks.

“By sabotaging our radios,” and Clarke gestures to the radio she sees tucked into Indra’s pocket, and she thinks the general must keep it on her person at all times. “Every clan has a radio so their ambassadors can communicate with their capitals, to help trade, negotiations, or to even smooth over any problems before they spiral out of control,” and Clarke lets her mind wander to the dangers, the challenges of suddenly being the only clan not able to communicate with their capital.

“Why does King Roan thinks this?” Indra says.

“When I was on my hunts,” Clarke continues. “Echo noticed that someone had messed with the radios, tried to change something on them,” and Clarke thinks to conversations already had.

Costia goes to say something then, gaze just once flicking to Ontari before back to Clarke.

“—And I know what some of you are thinking,” Clarke interrupts with an apologetic smile. “But we’ve thought about it,” and she pauses for just a second to order her thoughts. “Yes, Roan is being cautious, but someone could be playing with our radios to try to familiarise themselves with them, or to see just how much they could get away with before we start to notice,” and Clarke looks to Torvun who seems to think her words make sense, and she thinks he must agree, if only because his experience as a royal guard must have meant his life had always been dominated by being over cautious, every threat, small or large, considered and taken as seriously as the next.

“And if it is not really a ploy to cause confusion, to cause conflict between the clans?” Costia asks, and Clarke can’t help but to think, just for a moment, that the woman seems to have settled well into life free from shackles, free from torture and pain and servitude.

“That’s why I’m here,” Clarke answers. “Why we’re all here,” and she gestures to Ontari and Entani and Torvun. “If it’s nothing, then there’s no point going to Polis straight away and pointing fingers. We’d need proof of some kind,” and she watches Anya nod slowly, she watches the scowl beginning to spread even further across Indra’s face. “So we’re here. At Ton DC, and then to Arkadia, even the Mountain if we don’t find anything. But this is where the most tech is, where someone would try to do something if that’s what they’re after. If they’re trying to cause trouble, then maybe they’ll start here,” and Clarke hopes her decision, her guess, is correct.

“I do not know,” Anya says then, and Clarke’s gaze snaps back to her.

“Why?” and Clarke doesn’t question to cause offence, but merely to see a differing of opinions.

“If someone wishes to cause conflict with tech, then why risk being caught where it is more heavily guarded?”

“It makes sense to me, Anya,” Costia counters. “If someone is causing trouble, if they have already done something in Polis, or if they have done all they can do in Polis, then they would need to find other sources of tech to learn, to try to sabotage,” and Costia pauses, sweeps her hand around them. “So here. Arkadia. The Mountain.”

And perhaps, as the conversation continues to flow around the table of point and counterpoint, argument and counterargument, and as Clark’s gaze seems drawn to the map, to the models and the drawings of the lands, the trees and the forests, Clarke can’t help but to think it tiring, to think it frustrating that tech could once more be the catalyst to troubles within the Coalition.

 

* * *

 

Lexa takes a deep breath, her lungs fill with the heavenly scents of pine, of flower, spices and forests. She lets her mind ease, her body relax as much as it can, and she tries to clear her thoughts of all worry, of all annoyances.

Steam clings to her body, its presence sensed more than felt, yet she thinks it warm, full of richness, full of a burning heat that eases her muscles and stills her heart.

“Heda,” the voice calls out to her ever so quietly. “It is ready.”

Lexa takes a step forward, eyes closed, thoughts clear, she lets her toes feel the heat of the metal and then she lets her foot raise, lets it dip into the heat of a searing bath and she can’t hold back the groan of satisfaction, of comfort as the water begins to steal her worries.

And so Lexa finds herself reclining in the wash basin, its body large, its sides smoothed and polished brass. Reflections bounce off her wash rooms walls, some cast by the burning embers beneath the wash basin, some from the candles that linger nearby. Later laps at her chin, her head rests back against the wash basin’s smoothed and rounded edge, and she can’t help but to moan ever so gently as fingers card their way through her hair, and as the quiet sounds of a whetstone against metal ring out around her.

“You should tell the ambassadors to leave for the rest of the day,” Shana says quietly, and Lexa can’t help but to feel the barest smile tug at the corners of her lips.

“That would only cause me more discomfort and pain tomorrow and the day after, Shana. You know that.”

“That sounds like a problem for the Heda of tomorrow,” Shana counters.

And Lexa laughs lightly, the sound rumbling somewhere deep in her chest.

“And what do you think, Jass?” Lexa asks, and she listens to the stilling of the whetstone against metal.

“I think Shana speaks wisely,” Jass’ voice answers, and Lexa opens her eyes to see Jass eyeing her with a mirth behind hazel eyes, and a dark complexion.

“So it is mutiny?” Lexa chides, and she smiles as Jass flips the knife, pretends to stab it forward.

“Perhaps, Heda,” Jass says, and from the slight pause in the fingers through her hair, Lexa is sure Shana’s eyes roll.

The laughter fades though, and Lexa lets herself retreat deeper into her thoughts, into her memories, into things she knows are to come, and it happens subtly at first, and she thinks it not something conscious, not something purposeful, but she feels the pressure slowly building behind her eyes, she feels the frustration tensing her muscles, grinding her teeth, and she feels the anger already bubbl—

“Heda?” Shana’s voice cuts in ever so quietly, and it takes Lexa a moment longer to realise that Shan’s fingers have stilled in her hair, that Jass’ sharpening of her knife has silenced.

“I am ok, Shana,” Lexa says as she opens her eyes, looks up into the ceiling for a moment.

“Are you?” Jass asks, and Lexa knows it not often that one of her handmaidens would so openly ask, so openly disagree with her words, regardless of how close she feels to them.

And perhaps Jass’ question, her worry, was enough for Lexa to think, to try to organise her thoughts, to really consider.

And so, “No,” Lexa sighs as she dips just a little lower into the milky water.

“Do you wish to talk, Heda?” Shana asks.

And perhaps it couldn’t hurt, couldn’t cause anymore trouble than that of the ambassadors.

“The ambassadors are short sighted,” Lexa begins, and she finds the smile spreading across Jass’ lips familiar. “Not all of them,” Lexa continues. “But Elios,” and she grimaces as an image of the man and his narrow snake like face takes hold in her eyes. “He is blinded by his hatred for tech. Too blinded to see the good it does for our people,” Lexa says.

“Not all ambassadors feel the same, Heda,” Jass offers, and Lexa feels Shana’s agreement in the gentle tug of her hair.

“They do not,” Lexa says. “But they will not openly disagree with him over something that they fear themselves.”

“They fear it?” Shana asks.

“They do,” Lexa answers. “They fear it, but they do not think it is bad, not like Elios and some others.”

“Do you wish for us to gather information?” Jass asks simply, and Lexa knows her handmaidens would do much for her, all she would need to do is say so.

“No, Jass,” and Lexa shakes her head. “Not yet. I do not wish to antagonise any who are undecided. Not yet. Not when I must first deal with Elios.”

“Very wise, Heda,” Shana jokes.

“I am sure the warriors feel differently, Heda,” Jass offers. “At least those who were wounded during the Mountain’s siege, or from Nia’s actions,” and Lexa thinks she knows what Jass thinks of. “Many still breathe because of Skaikru and their tech. Many still walk, still wield weapon when once they would be maimed. Others still, who were more seriously wounded may continue to serve, perhaps not as warriors, but they can provide for their clan in other ways with the help of tech, when once they would become cripple.”

“Yes, Jass,” Lexa says, and she lets her eyes close and her worries drift away. “But still,” and she lets sleep pull at her mind ever so slowly. “There are some who I must still convince.”


	5. Chapter 5

The sun has already begun its journey towards the horizon by the time Clarke steps out from the building. She rolls her shoulders and can’t quite stifle the groan as the days of travel begin to settle more firmly upon her body.

“Tired?” Ontari asks as she pauses beside her.

“Yeah,” and Clarke can’t help but to think life would have been much easier had she never done all the things she had done in her life.

“What will we do now?” Entani asks and she leans against the building’s rusted and battered wall.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says, and she doesn’t. She doesn’t know how to even begin to investigate, not really, anyway. For it had been simple to say, to tell Anya, Indra and Costia what she thought she would do, but now, as she thinks over it, as she thinks of what to investigate, she isn’t so sure she knows what to look for. “We’ll figure it out,” she says as she begins to walk towards where the Azgeda warriors had made camp at the outskirts of Ton DC.

She passes more warriors, too, ones from Glowing Forest who seem just slightly wary of the increase in Azgeda numbers, some from Lake Clan, from the Plains Riders, even a number of Skaikru who she thinks must have been travelling between the Mountain and Arkadia.

Torvun steps just a little closer to her as he seems to sense slight hostility in some who pass, and yet Clarke can’t quite bring it herself to care, to worry, not when her thoughts try to sift through the things she knows and the things she knows that she doesn’t know.

“Clarke,” her name calls out to her over the wind, and as Clarke looks up she finds Wells walking her way, a slight sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead and his lips breaking into a cautious yet hopeful smile.

“Wells,” and Clarke finds herself changing direction and towards him.

“I didn’t think you were coming here,” he said as they both come to stop before each other an awkward distance.

“Yeah,” and Clarke wonders how long it will take for old wounds to heal completely. A thought comes to mind though, and Clarke looks around for a moment as she lets it take hold. “Do you have a moment?” and she wonders if revealing more of Roan’s suspicions, of her orders, to be wise, or to merely cause more panic.

“Yeah, sure,” and Wells looks around too. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take Wells long to guide Clarke and the others to a secluded part of Ton DC, where the noise of others just barely reaches their ears. Torvun turns his back to them and leans against a nearby wall of a large building as he turns his gaze outwards. Ontari and Entani both stand a little closer, too, each one seemingly happy to let Clarke take the lead in whatever discussions are to happen.

“What’s this about?” Wells asks as he blinks for a moment as he steps into the shadow cast by the nearby building.

And so Clarke takes a breath, worries her lip and thinks it best to speak as truthfully as she can.

“Have you noticed anything strange, Wells?” Clarke asks.

“Strange?” and he crosses his arms, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Strange how?”

And perhaps it’s merely the fact that history seems to be repeating itself, that the fear of tech is once more driving her actions, but Clarke can’t help but to feel the slightest hints of a headache beginning to build.

“Anything to do with technology?” she says.

“Ah,” and Wells looks away in thought, “what do you mean? Like stealing stuff?”

“No,” and Clarke sighs. “Someone was messing with our radio,” and she watches as Wells begins to think, as his expression takes on an expression she had seen many times before when they had played chess as children. “I want to know if it’s a one time thing, or if it’s something we need to take seriously,” and she pauses, grits her teeth. “You understand,” and she knows he remembers Nia, the Mountain, and how their tech was seemingly at the centre of all problems faced by the grounders.

“I haven’t noticed anything,” Wells says, and Clarke hears the sincerity. “You don’t think it’s my fathe—”

“No,” and Clarke shakes her head. “Thelonious won’t be responsible for whatever has happened,” and Clarke can’t see how the man would be capable, not now when he is nothing but a prisoner tucked away in the depths of the Mountain. “I’m not worried about him. But keep your ears open,” she continues. “If someone, or something looks odd, let me know. Get in touch. It could be nothing,” and she shrugs. “But I don’t want to risk it being something.”

“Yeah,” and Wells runs a hand over his face. “Try Raven at Arkadia?” he says. “Monty, even,” and Clarke thinks that a good suggestion. “I haven’t seen or heard anything suspicious, but they’d have a better understanding if something odd was happening to our technology.”

 

* * *

 

The hallways of Polis tower remain cool this time of the year, but day light streams through the windows, and washes the stone a vibrant yellow with each rising and setting of the sun. There are times when Lexa thinks the colour, the vibrancy of life that sings out around her seems so very removed from the horrors and the death that have graced the halls she walks through, but she knows them to be ghosts long gone now.

And so she shakes her head ever so slightly as she leans back in her thrown, lets her gaze travel from ambassador to ambassador that raises question and annoyance and grievance.

The nightbloods stand aside, each one shadowed by their first who stands behind them, hands resting on a blade strapped to their body in readiness for attack. Jani somehow catches her eye though, and the girl smiles just barely, the twitching of the corner of her lip the only sign of emotion she lets play across her face before she turns her attention back to the conversation that flows back and forth.

And so too, does Lexa turn her attention to those before her, to the ones that glare at each other, and to the others that share furtive glances, careful looks of understanding.

She sees Elios lean forward though, she sees his eyes glinting in the light and she can’t help but to think the man ready to engage in yet another barbed insult, in another demand for things to be different. And though he seems not to be the most hostile, not to be the most cunning or even the most dangerous, she finds him to be the most annoying. But for why, she can not quite place.

“Enough,” Lexa says, and she fights back the smile as she sees Elios deflate, whatever argument he has anticipate now snuffed from existence. And perhaps, for just the slightest of moments, Lexa can’t be blamed for thinking her actions just another small victory for her in whatever childish battle she now finds has replaced her days of waging strikes against reaper camps, or battles against Mountain Men and Azgeda. “We will reconvene tomorrow,” she lets her voice call out. “For now rest, enjoy what little of the day there is left and do not argue with each other more than you already have,” but Lexa sees a woman begin to stand, begin to gesture, mouth already opening in question. “Yes, Kahlan. You will have your fruit,” and Lexa can’t help but to think the woman’s smile striking and victorious. “And you will ensure that Lake Clan is allowed to travel through your shared border without worry of further inspections for now.”

“That is acceptable, Heda,” Kahlan says as she bows her head.

And so the ambassadors begin to file out of the thrown room, she sees their personal guard falling into step behind them, and she watches as Elios casts one last glance around them, to the nightbloods and to the Polis guard that stand beside her thrown. But Lexa’s gaze also settles on Ilian, on the man who seems tired, who seems wary of the talk, of what she is sure he thinks of as never ending bickering and childish insult.

“Ilian,” Lexa calls out to him, and she watches as Elios turns, eyes them both for a moment. “May I speak with you in private,” and Lexa wonders just what she will say to the warrior.

“Heda?” he asks as he takes a step towards her, but she gestures outwards and to side doors that hide away her private study, her private war room where conversation is more easily kept away from keen ears.

“I wish to talk with you about Elios,” Lexa says as she lets the door close behind them with a thud, the only thing to break the silence being two of her guard who follow them inside.

“I would apologise for Elios’ behaviour,” Ilian says, head bowing ever so slightly. “But I do not wish to apologise after every ambassador meeting,” and as he straightens Lexa can’t help but to see mirth in the man’s gaze.

“I would not hold it against you,” she says as she begins to move towards a large table that dominates the room.

But Ilian must begin to sense just how out of earshot this room truly is for Lexa sees him glance around, to the two Polis guards that stand by the only entrance, and to the map of the clans and all known lands draped across the table.

“I mean no disrespect, Heda,” Ilian begins as his arms cross. “But I do not know why you wish to talk with me.”

“I do not wish for you to turn against your clan, Ilian,” Lexa says. “Simply to ask you why Elios can not see the benefit tech will bring our people.”

Ilian pauses at that, and Lexa watches as his gaze turns to the map of the clans, to the Mountain, to Arkadia, to the surrounding forests and to his own clan’s borders.

“Before the Mountain,” Ilian says as he looks up to meet her gaze. “I was a farmer,” and he begins to run his finger tips over the map’s surface. “Of sheep,” and he smiles as he lifts his arms for a moment as if seemingly holding up a memory with motion alone. “But when the Mountain attacked. When you called for all the clan’s warriors, I came,” and he pauses, looks away and Lexa thinks that he tries not to let a memory take hold. “As did my father. My brother,” and Ilian sighs with a heaviness that Lexa understands far too well. “I am not the only one to lose what I love,” he continues. “Elios lost a son and a daughter, Heda,” and Ilian shrugs briefly. “He distrusts tech. Thinks it is a plague that will only destroy.”

“But you do not think that,” Lexa says and she thinks she sees the barest flickering of thought behind Ilian’s gaze.

“Tech has destroyed more than I could imagine,” Ilian says. “But it has helped rebuild more than I thought possible,” and Lexa senses a pain in his eyes. “It helps our people just as much as it destroys our people.”

“But you think it is different now?” Lexa asks.

“Perhaps,” and Ilian seems to consider his words, seems to try to put together thought as carefully as she wishes some ambassadors did. “In the wrong hands tech has caused the coalition pain and suffering,” and he shakes his head, rids whatever darker thoughts were beginning to take hold. “But under guidance from those that wish us no harm, it has been a blessing. It has helped return life to those that would have been lost. It has provided food for those that would once have starved,” Ilian pauses once more, and Lexa thinks the man tries to hide whatever demons of his past behind a calm exterior. But Ilian lifts the hem of his shirt, and as he does so Lexa finds that the motion reveals a scar, a wound from a battle. But from the way the stitching seems so precise, from the way the wound should have maimed, she knows it is the product of Skaikru and their tech. And so Ilian meets her gaze steadily. “Elios has not seen the light yet.”

 

* * *

 

The moon hangs high in the sky. Barely an animal braves the dark, and Clarke feels the calm in her mind, she feels the tension in her muscles. A quiet rustling in front of her is the only thing to give away the presence of the deer, and she peers out, she tries to see shape amongst the bushes. Movement comes, just barely noticed, but she knows it to mean that the deer moves, that it treads more carefully, that it wanders, wary and nervous, yet unsuspecting of attack.

A bird call echoes out quietly, its tone light, cheerful upon the wind, and Clarke knows it to mean Entani, perhaps even Ontari have both seen its movement, have both anticipated where it is to travel.

And so Clarke begins to creep forward, she feels the fletching upon her lips and she tries not to let the aches in her arms shake her aim too much. Torvun presses ever so softly against her, too, the man’s own bow drawn, eyes searching for exposed flesh.

Clarke lets her breath still, she lets her eyes focus on the outline of the deer in the distance, and Clarke lets her mind ease as she draws her arrow back fully, as she sights down its length and as she takes in a low, steady breath. She lets the beats of her heart ease, she waits until she feels her heart beat once, twice, and when she thinks she feels the rhythm, when she thinks she feels its pattern, she fi—

A snap breaks the silence, the sound echoes out around them, and Clarke fires. She fires and she misses. A curse is heard somewhere nearby, Ontari’s voice angry and disgusted at whatever motion she had done to give away their presence. But Clarke’s gaze snaps back to the deer just in time to see her arrow strike it in the shoulder.

But she knows.

The beast already begins moving before her arrow has struck and so it doesn’t surprise her to see the beast dart away with a yelp of pain, of surprise and instinct. Clarke gives chase though, and she feels Torvun already moving, already breaking through the underbrush. Two shadows leap forward, too and Clarke knows them to be Entani and Ontari, both women fast and fleeting as they snake through the forest floor.

Clarke leaps over a fallen tree trunk, she casts her gaze outwards and to the moss covered forest floor and she hears more than sees the deer as it darts left and right and away.

It doesn’t register quite as fast as it should, but Clarke realises that she recognises the forests she runs through, she recognises the trees. And she does for she remembers stalking reaper and Mountain Man, she remembers waging battle and she remembers the tunnels. And so it doesn’t surprise Clarke when the trees open up to reveal a clearing of sorts with the dark opening of a tunnel recessed into rock.

She sees the deer though, its limp more pronounced as it continues to dart forwards. Torvun and Entani break through the trees at the same time, and Clarke blinks in the dark as she sees a flash of an arrow that is fired over her head and towards where the deer runs. But that arrow misses just barely as the deer slips into the tunnel’s opening. Ontari curses once more, and Clarke eyes the tunnel opening, whose mouth seems more wild now, less used and daunting.

“Reaper tunnels,” Entani says quietly, and Clarke watches as the healer peers into the tunnel, into its depths.

“It does not look like anyone has ventured into them since the Mountain,” Torvun says as he comes to stand beside the healer.

The realisation that animals have seemingly found shelter in the reaper tunnels doesn’t surprise Clarke, if only because she thinks the tunnels must hold bad memories for many grounders that had once been terrorised by the Mountain and the reapers.

“Yeah,” and Clarke squares her shoulders. “It wouldn’t surprise me if people have been avoiding these tunnels since the Mountain.” And for just a moment Clarke feels her skin prickle and crawl, she even feels the shiver that runs through her spine as she eyes the blood trail that disappears into the tunnel’s darkness. “Come on,” and Clarke grits her teeth as she knocks another arrow and begins to creep forward. “It’s wounded. It can’t have gone far.”

 

* * *

 

It’s creepy, that’s the first thing Clarke notices. The lack of sounds, the lack of bird song and even wind, causes the hair on the back of her neck to stand up. Torvun walks beside her, the man holding up a burning branch that they had lit earlier, and as Clarke’s gaze moves across the ground, the rock and stone, she tries to find a trail of blood, anything that would give sign of where the wounded deer has travelled.

Entani and Ontari both walk behind her, too, and though she is sure Ontari would never admit it, Clarke is sure that the other woman feels the same creepiness settling within her mind for she seems to be walking much closer to Entani than is required.

“Here,” Torvun whispers as he pauses, leans down and inspects a disturbed piece of ground. “It paused for a moment,” and then he gestures forwards again.

“I do not like these tunnels even when reapers no longer exist,” Entani says ever so quietly as they continue walking forwards, and as Clarke turns back to the woman she finds Entani holding her spear tightly, eyes darting from shadow to shadow before briefly looking over her shoulder and to the dim light coming in from the entrance in the distance.

“Yeah,” and Clarke turns to Ontari, “it’s creepy,” and she can’t quite hold back the smile as she watches Ontari seemingly flinch to a shadow that creeps a little too close.

But she hears it then. A groan, something pained and weak, but Clarke knows it to be the deer, and so she peers out into the distance, into the dark that swallows the way forward.

They come upon the deer then, its body slumped on the ground, blood pooling out around it, and Clarke can’t help but to feel sorry, to feel the need to apologise for whatever suffering she has caused in the hunt.

And so she takes in a deep breath as she kneels down beside it, pulls out her knife and plunges it into the deer’s heart as cleanly as she can.

“Come on,” Clarke says. “Let’s get back to Ton DC before it’s too la—”

Entani curses though, and Clarke looks up to see the woman hobbling ever so slightly as she kicks at something sharp on the ground she must have tripped over.

“Ok?” Clarke asks, and she watches as Entani squints down at the ground.

“Clarke,” and Entani bends, she reaches for whatever she had stood upon before picking it up and holding it to the light. “Look.”

It takes Clarke a moment to register just what it is that she sees, but as Torvun moves closer, as he holds the light higher in an attempt to cast the light further around them, Clarke thinks she gasps, she thinks she feels her lips turn just a moment cooler.

In Entani’s hand is the broken remains of something, of plastic, twisted and shattered, crushed and warped by something heavy and strong.

“Tech,” Entani says, gaze moving to Ontari as if in confirmation before back to Clarke.

And so Clarke moves closer, she lets her eyes adjust to the light and she reaches forward to take whatever it is in Entani’s hands.

Clarke doesn’t know what to make of it, she doesn’t even really know what to think, but she knows it can’t be coincidence, can’t be happenstance.

“Perhaps it was left during the siege of the Mountain?” Ontari asks, and Clarke looks up to see the woman eyeing the broken piece of plastic in her hands with suspicion and guarded curiosity.

“I don’t think so,” Clarke says as she turns over the dark piece of plastic. “It doesn’t look that old,” and she worries her lip, eyes the lack of dust, of signs of age.

“You think someone left it here?” Entani questions and Clarke eyes the way the healer seems to be chewing her lip in thought and worry.

“I do not think so, Entani,” Torvun says as even he moves closer to inspect. “Clarke is right. Not many would wish to brave these tunnels, especially Trikru or Skaikru. The memories of the reapers is still too fresh.”

“So what, Clarke?” Entani says, “you think it is a sign of King Roan’s suspicions?”

“I think it must be,” Ontari adds.

“Yeah,” and Clarke wonders why someone would wish to break tech rather than steal, use or exploit. “We should get this back, too,” and she wonders who she could tell, could show without causing suspicions to ran rampant. “Let’s g—”

But she hears it ever so slightly. It’s a creaking, a barely there thing that fills the air. And Clarke is sure if she was out in the open, if she was amongst the trees and wind and bird call, that the sound would be lost to the lands.

But here? In the tunnels? Where sound echoes and carries? She knows what she hears.

Torvun hears it too, and his body tenses for only a fraction of a second before he begins to move.

Torvun yells out a warning, his body shifts and moves and he drops the burning flame to the ground. Clarke spares Entani and Ontari both only a fraction of a second’s notice, just enough that she sees them register the bowstring being drawn, and then she moves too, she dives to the ground and she curses out and snarls as her face slams into the gravel as an arrow snaps by overhead and slams into the tunnel walls with a deafening slap that echoes out around them.

And before Clarke fully grasps what happens around them, she hears weapons being drawn, and she feels rough hands reaching for purchase upon her body.


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke moves, she moves fast, without thought or conscious effort. As hands descend upon her, she reaches for her knife, she rolls, kicks out at whoever attacks and she grimaces as a rock digs into her hip. Entani must have found her spear, must have been halfway prepared to strike the deer already, for Clarke is sure she hears it slice through the air, she is even certain she hears the distinct sound of it finding flesh.

Clarke barely has time to acknowledge that Ontari and Torvun struggle with their own attackers, she barely has time to identify friend from foe in the flickering of the fire light. And she doesn’t for she feels rough hands grip her ankle, try to pull her back, turn her around and hold her down. But Clarke spits out a curse, she spits out her angers and she thrashes as violently as she can as she draws her knife.

She can’t even see her attackers, not quite. Each one seems more shadow, more silhouette than warrior, but that is all she needs, and so Clarke kicks out, she smiles a victorious smirk as her heel connects with a chin and then she lunges forward. At the same time Clarke thinks she senses Ontari flash past her, the woman’s sword drawn, snarl upon her lips, even Entani seems to have chased her spear, seems to have already retrieved it from whoever it had struck.

But Clarke hears a warning in the commotion, and she spares whoever is in front of her just a moment’s attention, enough that she knows the attack has been paused for just enough time, and then she dives, she hits the ground in time to avoid a swing of a weapon that soars over her head, but Torvun must have been the one to warn for she sees him crash into the second attacker, she sees him pin his knife into the man’s chest and knock away a struggling arm.

Clarke spins on her knees, she turns to face whoever it is before her and she darts forward, knife drawn and teeth barred. Recognition is plastered on what she finds to be a man’s face, and she knows from the widening of his eyes, from the way they dart across her scars, that he must recognise who she is, but it doesn’t deter her, not now, not when they had been attacked.

And so Clarke slashes out, she spins under a swing of his sword, and she finds herself close, her size enough to invade his space, her knife small enough for her to wield in their proximity, and so Clarke slams her head forward, she grimaces at the barest hints of pain as her brow hits his nose, and she stabs her knife into his chest without more than angry acceptance of the blood now spilling on to her white furs.

Clarke hears a yelp, something full of pain, of desperation and fear, and she turns to find Entani wrenching her spear from a man’s chest, she finds Ontari kneeling over a twitching body, and she sees Torvun’s foot pressed against a woman’s throat, her nose broken, eye already beginning to swell, and her right arm stuck to the ground by Torvun’s knife.

“Don’t kill her,” Clarke says as she comes to stand.

Clarke wipes her knife off on a dead man’s body, and she sees the woman’s gaze follow the motion with something that existed between fear and anger.

“Who are you?” Torvun says, and Clarke looks behind her for just a moment to confirm no others lurk in the darkness.

But the woman doesn’t answer, doesn’t say much more than glare and seem to accept whatever fate awaits her.

“We should kill her,” Ontari says, her voice dripping with anger and contempt, her chest rising just a little at the exertion and the adrenaline that must be flowing through her veins.

“Not yet,” and Clarke comes to stand over the woman, look down at her and try to find a trace of markings on her face. “I want to question her first,” and Clarke can’t help but to wince just a little as Ontari nudges Torvun’s knife with her boot, enough that the woman whimpers in pain. “Let’s get her,” and Clarke gestures to the deer carcass. “And the deer back to Ton DC.”

“And the bodies?” Entani asks.

“We’ll send people back for them later.”

* * *

 

It doesn’t surprise Clarke to find that Ontari has found the darkest, coldest, most unpleasant dungeon in the depths of Ton DC to house the woman, and as Clarke continues to eye her through the slit in the door, she thinks her skin crawls, her mind spins and her thoughts turn to whatever must have been uncovered.

Entani leans against a pillar, her arms crossed over her chest as she glares at the prisoner, Ontari and Torvun stand close to Clarke and she can’t help but to feel just a little apprehension at the way Ontari’s fingers constantly twitch towards her knife as if her fingers anticipate and long for the prisoner to try to escape, to try to fight back in a foolish last ditch effort.

“She attacked you and your friends?” Anya asks into the silence.

“Yes,” Clarke says, and she continues to watch as a healer finishes bandaging the woman’s arm, if only so that she won’t bleed out before information is extracted.

“Why?” Anya asks.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says. But she thinks it to do with the broken piece of plastic now tucked into her clothes, whose presence and that of who had attacked them was surely not a coincidence.

“Why were they in the reaper tunnels,” Anya asks, but it seems more voiced thought than question.

“We found broken tech,” Clarke says in answer. “They attacked us only when we noticed it.”

“You think they would not have attacked if you did not find tech?” Anya questions.

“I don’t know,” but Clarke thinks it likely.

Clarke turns to the sounds of feet treading over wet stone, and she finds Indra and Costia coming down the dimly lit stone stairs, each step they take cautious and wary of falling.

“We searched the tunnels,” Indra says in way of greeting. “There were no more warriors,” and she gestures her chin to the prisoner.

“Are there other places around here that might be good to hide in?” Clarke asks.

“Perhaps,” Indra says. “I will send for warriors to search them,” and she eyes the prisoner, constant annoyance the only emotion seemingly plastered across her face.

“I’m going to question her,” Clarke says after a moment, and she pauses once more to think over the things she knows, over Roan’s suspicions, what has now happened, and what could continue to happen in days to come. “And she’s coming with me to Arkadia. To Polis, too.”

“She is a Trikru prisoner,” Anya counters.

“Who attacked Azgeda warriors,” and Clarke raises her chin in challenge, she even feels Torvun step a little closer out of habit. “Who attacked me. The Azgeda ambassador,” and Clarke knows she will be victorious in this exchange. “We have ownership over her fate no matter where her crimes were committed,” and Clarke can’t help but to feel satisfaction at the way Anya’s eyes darken for just a moment. “If you disagree with what I say, then you can take it up with the Commander.”

“Very well,” and Anya seems to think ahead, to something distant. “You may have the prisoner.”

Clarke smiles then, if only to try to lessen the tension she feels building in her muscles. She looks around her, too, and she finds the Costia tucked away in a far corner, the woman a little uncomfortable in such confined spaces. Clarke doesn’t blame her though, not after the things she knows Costia experienced.

Clarke takes a moment to steady her thoughts, to clear her mind, and then she steps around Anya, pushes open the door and gestures for the healer to leave before she comes to stand before the woman who remains seated on the stone floor, ankles shackled by a rusted chain. Torvun follows her in, comes to stand beside her, and Entani and Ontari both remain behind the woman, their presence heard and felt yet unseen.

Clarke knows too, that stories of Azgeda’s brutality travel far, sometimes exaggerated, sometimes not, and so it doesn’t surprise her to find the woman worrying her lip ever so slightly at what she must think is soon to happen.

“What’s your name?” Clarke asks, and she sees a shiver run through the prisoner, her state of half dress, clothes torn and removed in order to ensure no other weapon’s were hidden on her person. The woman doesn’t answer though, she simply glares up at Clarke.

“How’s your arm?” Clarke continues, and she eyes the pool of slowly drying blood by the woman’s right arm, the wound not serious enough to maim, at least not soon, but serious enough to cause permanent damage if proper medical attention isn’t received.

Yet again the woman glares up at Clarke, a strand of dark brown hair the only thing to twitch on her face with the shallow breaths she takes. But Clarke also sees the barest hints of fear in the woman’s eyes, in the way her skin seems pale and clammy, and the way her lips tremble just barely.

“What clan are you from?” and Clarke eyes the woman’s face, the lack of scars, of tattoos that would give away her clan. “You’ve got no scars,” and Clarke smiles for a moment as she senses the woman eye the ones slashed down her own face. “No tattoos,” and Clarke looks up just once to Indra who remains outside the room, who looks in with guarded curiosity and open annoyance. “Did you know,” and Clarke comes to kneel before the woman, close enough that she could reach out, grasp the woman if she wished, but far enough away that she could defend, could react to attack if it came. “That Azgeda spies and assassins are chosen as children,” and Clarke can’t help but to wonder just for a moment who other clans choose their own spies and assassins. “Their families are compensated, of course,” Clarke continues, and despite her feelings towards the subject, she knows many things unchangeable within her clan. “It is only fair that a family be looked after if they are to give their child to the clan,” Clarke adds, but she pauses, she wonders how much to reveal, how much would cause the woman to think twice before continuing to remain silent. “Our spies and assassins are trained by the royal guard, they are trained to be the best our clan has to offer,” and Clarke knows Anya and Indra listens with open curiosity, and that Costia must be uncertain of what Clarke’s aims are. “But they are also taught from a young age that to be captured by the enemy, to be found, imprisoned, is a fate that often awaits them,” and Clarke smiles a little less warmly as she lets her words wend their way through the woman’s mind. “They are subjected to torture, to beatings. To things that would break them. That they are to expect if ever captured,” Clarke lets the light play across her face, she lets the scars catch the woman’s attention.

“Did you know,” and Clarke gestures to her face, to Torvun’s, to Entani and Ontari who both remain quiet behind the woman. “That we scar ourselves without pain relief. It is a sign that we have earned the right to be called Azgeda,” Clarke pauses once more, enough that she can organise her own thoughts, can find a way in which to threaten, to coax answer and information free. “Our warriors know pain from the time they are old enough to hold a weapon,” and though Clarke knows every clan’s warriors do the same, she also knows that Azgeda is often regarded as the most violent. And so, “we know how much to hurt a person. We know how much pain someone can endure before they break. Before they are maimed, become useless, become a waste of years of training. But we push our warriors right to the very edge,” Clarke sees the woman swallow, the motion enough for Clarke to know discomfort and uncertain begin to run more freely within the woman’s mind. “But, because we know how far we can push our warriors, we also know how to break them,” Clarke finds the next thing she is to say distasteful, but she knows threats must be made, she knows anticipation and fear to be a driving factor. “Answer my questions and you won’t have to hurt. We’ll even care for you as much as we would any normal prisoner,” and Clarke shrugs, if only because she doesn’t quite yet know what she will do if the woman doesn’t submit. “But if you don’t, then we’ll hurt you. We’ll hurt you and try to get what we want from you. But if you don’t break? If we don’t get our answers? We’ll just continuing hurting you until we run out of ways to hurt you. And it will be slow, it will be painful. It will hurt. And when it’s over?” Clarke says, and she can’t help but to feel guilt, if only because she feel’s Costia’s gaze drilling into her from through the open door, from where she hides in a far corner. “When it’s over, it will be too late for us to make any of the damage we’ve done go away. You’ll just have to learn how to live with what you’re left with,” Clarke sees the woman blink quickly, she sees the realisation that her death wasn’t threatened begin to sink in, and Clarke sees the woman understand the threat of continued existence. “Think about it.”

 

* * *

 

It’s dark by the time Clarke walks out of the dungeons. Stars and the moon have replaced sun and cloud and Clarke watches as a few Azgeda warriors walk past, some in conversation, some laughing, others preoccupied with thoughts.

“What will we do now, Clarke?” Entani asks as Ontari stands by idly.

“It’s too late to travel to Arkadia now,” she answers with a yawn. “We’ll rest then leave first thing tomorrow.”

“And the prisoner?” Entani continues as she leans on her spear.

“She’ll come with us,” Clarke says. “Come on, let’s get something to eat,” she finishes as she pats Torvun’s arm as she begins walking to Azgeda camp.

 

* * *

 

Lexa wakes to a knock against her door. It takes her only a fraction of a second before she sits up, eyes quick to adjust to the dimmed flickering light of the candles that burn throughout her quarters. From the sliver of sky she can see through her window she knows it to still be deep into the night, that the moon will remain in the sky for many hours.

Lexa pulls the furs from her body, she embraces the cool of the night’s air and she reaches for her lighter clothes as she slips from her bed, one hand quick to snatch the knife she sleeps with and tuck it into place against her thigh.

“Heda,” Jass’ voice comes out carefully through her door, the handmaiden careful as not to disturb the peace of the night. “Forgive the intrusion, but Echo Kom Azgeda wishes to speak with you.”

Lexa feels the sting in the back of her mind, and she does for she never quite forgives Echo for the things she had done, she never will or can. But perhaps Costia’s return is enough to temper her angers, perhaps Clarke’s insistence that Echo is no longer a threat, is enough to diminish her want to remove the assassin’s head from her shoulders. But only just barely.

“Enter,” Lexa calls out as she comes to stand in the centre of her room, a small table between herself the door.

Jass opens the door carefully, the handmaiden half bowed as she steps inside. Echo stands at her room’s entrance, her shoulders squared, jaw set, and eyes guarded as she looks around.

“Heda,” Echo says as she bows. “Forgive the intrusion,” and Lexa wonders for just a moment what Clarke would do if she heard that Echo had fallen from the height of Polis tower.

“It is late, Echo,” Lexa says, and she lets her voice even, she lets the tired slip away and she prepares her mind for whatever news she is about to receive.

“King Roan sent me with a message,” and Echo looks to Jass for a moment.

“Jass will not leave us,” Lexa says for she knows Echo wishes to talk alone.

And at that Jass simply remains quiet, one of the woman’s hands behind her back, the motion a sign she has already half drawn at least one of her knives in preparation to attack given the word, or to defend given provocation.

Echo must take a moment to consider her orders, and in that time, Lexa is sure she sees Jass step subtly closer to her, angle her body just enough that she could dive between them if need be without much effort.

“King Roan has suspicions that someone is attempting to sabotage Azgeda’s ability to use tech,” Echo says bluntly.

It’s a testament to the training Jass has undergone that Lexa doesn’t see the woman react in the slightest to the news, and Lexa knows that her face shows no outward signs of surprise, but she lets her mind begin to sift through what Echo says, what it could mean, and why someone would try to do such a thing.

“Why?” Lexa asks.

“Our radio,” Echo answers. “It was changed in a way that I would not do accidentally.”

Lexa takes this information in, and she lets her mind sift through the things she knows of tech, of its advantages, of those who may dislike it, of those who find its uses beneficial, and she finds that it doesn’t surprise her to realise that she had expected someone, eventually, to try to disrupt one clan from talking with their capital, from being delayed even just a day with new information, all in the name of gaining an upper hand in whatever trade negotiations may be taking place.

But, as Lexa eyes Echo’s seriousness, she sees a certainty, a preparedness to do what must be done to ensure her clan’s security, her worry, and suspicions. Lexa doesn’t voice these thoughts though, doesn’t even let Echo read into her mind deep enough to discover how much she contemplates, and she knows the time that she has remained silent now begins to stretch into awkward, but that, too, is a tool to be used at times of uncertainty.

“That is why Wanheda is late,” Echo continues with barely a break in demeanour, and that, Lexa can find impressive, if only because she knows just how awkward it can be to wait for a response that is never to come. “She is investigating in Ton DC, perhaps Arkadia and the Mountain.”

“I see,” and Lexa lets her head tilt to the side for a fraction, lets her gaze drill into Echo, lets the uncomfortable awkward settle even further upon them both.

Echo’s gaze narrows just a fraction, so slightly that Lexa knows others would think the motion imagined. But she sees it, she senses the unease beginning to settle upon the assassin even further.

Jass must sense it, too, for this time the handmaiden shifts slightly where she stands, she seems to glance between both women, and seems to recognise the distain in Lexa’s demeanour, and the calm unease in Echo’s.

But, as Lexa thinks her game has gone on long enough, as she thinks of ending whatever childish actions she partakes in, Echo looks away for just barely a second, but it’s enough for Lexa to know that she has won what it is they play, that Echo has submitted to the awkwardness of her stare, to the contempt that she lets be seen in her gaze alone.

“Ask of me what you wish to ask, Echo,” Lexa breaks the silence, a victorious smirk the only thing she lets play across her lips. “I am no reader of minds.”

“I wish to conduct investigations, Heda,” Echo says.

“And what would that entail?”

“I will see if other clan’s tech has been sabotaged,” Echo says. “It will help illuminate the motives of whoever has sabotaged our tech.”

Lexa knows that Echo talks of _stealing_ if only for a short while, enough to ascertain whether other clans have been targeted, and she thinks the assassin’s request reasonable, if only because she can see how it would help to lessen some of Echo’s concern.

“You have my permission,” Lexa says. “But if you are caught, then I will deny any knowledge of what you do, and if the victims of your crimes demand punishment. You will be punished no more and no less than anyone else who is caught stealing.”

And so Echo nods her understanding, bows her head and turns to leave. Lexa watches watches the assassin walking away, until she turns down a corridor and passes two guards stationed at the other end of the long hallway. Jass walks forward then, closes the door and turns to face her, question upon her lips and curiosity in her eyes.

“Do you believe her, Heda?” Jass asks.

“Yes,” Lexa says, and she can’t quite help but to feel an annoyance beginning to build ever so slowly in the corners of her mind at the prospect of a plot growing somewhere in the heart of Polis.

“What do you wish for us to do?” Jass continues, and Lexa knows her handmaidens will do anything she asks of them with no concern for their own safety.

“Ask questions,” Lexa says. “Do not reveal what you search for. Befriend those in the ambassador retinues. “Echo will discover whether tech is being sabotaged, and I do not wish for any of you to be in harms way,” Lexa pauses for a moment to think some more. “You will learn if it is simply an over curious second who is enamoured with tech, or you will discover nothing.”

Jass pauses as she lets Lexa’s words sink in, and then she smiles, “and if we discover nothing, then it would suggest that people are being guarded with what they reveal?”

“Yes,” Lexa says.

“I will inform the other handmaidens, Heda,” Jass says as she bows and turns to leave. “I apologise for the interruption. Good night, Heda.”

“Good night, Jass.”

As the door to her quarters closes, Lexa lets out a sigh, she finds a place on the edge of her bed, and she can’t help but to think it just a little too empty, a little too cold. And not for the first time, she finds herself anticipating Clarke’s long overdue return.


	7. Chapter 7

Ontari doesn’t quite know how long it is that she waits, she doesn’t quite know how long it takes for Clarke’s breaths to even out in slumber, or even how long it takes for Entani’s constant tossing and turning to still as deeper sleep takes hold. But she knows it long enough that her mind screams out in annoyance, in frustration, in slowly building anticipation.

Entani shifts ever so slightly in the bed the three of them share, and the motion causes Ontari to still, to listen, to wait for just a moment longer. But, the healer eases deeper into sleep, deeper into calm, and so Ontari smiles, bites her lip just for the briefest of moments, and then rises as quietly as she can.

The long fur robe, its colour darker, richer, warmer than that of the stark white she so often wears, hangs from her shoulders, its front kept closed by a single fur belt tied around her waist. As Ontari moves, as she slips from the bed, she can’t quite help but to enjoy the way the fur feels as it brushes against her flesh, as it glides across her body and silences any sound leathers and armour would make.

Ontari pats the slightest signs of her knife that she keeps tucked against her hip, the motion half-thought, more sensed than conscious decision. And perhaps walking through Azgeda camp unarmed was not such a dangerous thing, perhaps sneaking through the dark surrounded by allies, regardless of their clan, was not so deadly. But fool, Ontari was not, and so she will keep her knife on her at all times.

The air prickles what little of her chest is exposed to the night, and she stifles the barest hints of a moan of pleasure at the way it reminds her of the Azgeda winds. But she knows she lets slip too much sound when she ducks out the tent’s small entrance to be met with Torvun’s reproachful gaze, the man reclined in a large chair, one hand ever constant atop his knife, his broad sword and bow and quiver of arrows barely an arm’s reach away.

“Where do you go?” Torvun asks quietly, the gruffness of his voice the only thing that gives away the fact that he was soundly asleep mere moments ago.

“Nowhere,” Ontari says as she self-consciously swipes at a strand of hair that seems to have escaped her braids.

“You are not dressed,” Torvun says evenly, and Ontari will deny that the tips of her ears burn until her dying breath.

“I am dressed,” she answers with a hiss as she pulls her furs more firmly across her body.

But Torvun seems not to agree, if only because he smirks, tilts his head to the side and eyes her for another long moment.

“Ok,” he answers after a moment. “We leave early in the mor—”

“I know,” Ontari says as she glances behind herself and back into the tent through a sliver of the fabric.

But Ontari can’t deny the thrill that begins to race through her veins, she can’t deny the want that seems to be taking hold somewhere in the furthest corners of her mind. And so she turns back to Torvun, eyes the way the moon’s light bounces off his bald head, and the beard that casts a mighty shadow down his chest.

“You are a poor guard, Torvun,” she says jokingly as she begins walking into the darkness. “Any assassin would see your head from afar.”

And so, as Ontari begins moving away from the tent, she knows she hears Torvun’s chortle of mirth fade into the sounds of the forest that begins to swallow her whole. Ontari passes an Azgeda warrior, a man she has spoken with only a few times, and they share a quick nod of acknowledgement as she passes.

She passes other Azgeda warriors, too, some wide awake as they keep watch for the night, others half asleep as they trudge and wend their way through the many tents. Even some seem to be making the most of the quiet of the night and solitude, their movements in the dark a sign that they train for battle without sight, without sound.

And it’s pride, Ontari feels, as she passes lone Azgeda warrior after lone Azgeda warrior, if only because she knows that Azgeda’s standing within the Coalition was shaken by Nia’s actions, by her treachery at having sided with the filth of the Mountain. And it’s pride for she knows any of the other clans would have been stepped over, would have been forced into the dirt, would have been taken advantage of. And yet, her time in Polis showed that, though clans tried to do such things, Clarke navigated her role as ambassador as well as any, that the Azgeda warriors that moved through the streets of Polis with weapons perfectly cleaned, faces painted brilliantly white, and scars as prominent as could be, were sign enough that Azgeda would not allow itself to be taken advantage of.

And so it is pride she feels. Pride that Azgeda survived. Pride that Azgeda now commands more than some clans combined, pride that Azgeda will continue to thrive. Pride that Azgeda is strong, stronger than it was, and will be stronger tomorrow, and the day after, and the day aft—

“Where do you go?” Ontari stops, she looks around and finds a Trikru guard standing before her, her gaze careful, one hand resting atop her knife.

“Not of your concern,” Ontari says simply as she continues walking, and she can’t find it in herself to care that the woman eyes her suspiciously, that she looks upon her with distrust. But Ontari doesn’t blame her. If only because she would do the same in her boots.

And so she continues to push onwards, eyes glancing around as she eyes the trees, around TonDC, the camp fires she spies in the distance that signal the border of TonDC’s walls. She also hears the telltale sign of another camp, this one larger than the Azgeda, and she knows she comes to her destination when she breaks free from the trees and into a larger clearing, this one with fires that burn in fire pits, their construction permanent, well used.

More Trikru guards stand by now, their eyes quick to snap to her appearance. She sees some tense for a moment before relaxing, and she knows that after the months of Azgeda presence both around TonDC and the Mountain and Arkadia, that Azgeda warriors roaming Trikru places is not so uncommon, not so unheard of.

Ontari shakes her wandering thoughts though, she lets her mind ease into the motions she makes and she ignores the eyes she feels following her movements as she walks deeper and deeper into the Trikru camp.

She knows what she searches for though, and it only takes her a moment to recognise the tent in the distance. As she comes to a stop outside, as she settles the beating of her heart, she can’t help but to look around herself, to anyone who may have followed, to anyone who may still watch. But Ontari sees no one, she sees no followers, and she sees hardly a thing in the dark of the night. And so she turns back to the tent’s entrance and ducks inside as quietly as she can.

And perhaps Ontari thinks she is more quiet than she was, if only because as soon as she crosses into the tent’s interior she feels the press of a knife to her throat, and a body that crowds her space, makes it hard for her to respond without struggle.

“You should not sneak into someone’s tent uninvited,” the voice says evenly, and Ontari can’t fight the smirk that lifts the corners of her mouth.

And so Ontari lifts her chin, raises and eyebrow and smiles as she pushes the woman away from her gently.

“That has never stopped me before,” Ontari says.

“It has not,” and Costia lowers her knife, lets it come to rest atop a small desk. “Why are you here?” Costia continues as she leans against the desk’s edge and crosses her arms, but from the way Ontari can see her eyes sparkling, from the way she hears the slightest hints of eagerness in Costia’s voice, she is sure the woman knows.

And so in answer?

Ontari lets her hand move to the fur belt tied around her waist, she lets the motion come slow and steady, her gaze never wavering from Costia’s eyes. And all it takes is the slightest of tugs, all it takes is the simplest flick of her wrist, and then the belt comes loose, she lets its sound rustle the air and then she drops it to the floor.

“Perhaps,” Ontari says as she shrugs, the motion enough to expose a lone shoulder, “this,” and she feels the smirk build as Costia’s eyes seem to trace the paleness of her flesh. “Is why,” and at that Ontari lets her fur robe fall to the floor to reveal just how bare she is underneath.

 

* * *

 

Lexa thinks it early morning from the light that shines through the gaps in the closed windows. Her footsteps continue to echo out around her quietly, each step she takes adding to the noise of a slowly waking people. She passes servants and guards, many already dressed, already prepared for the new day. But Lexa knows it to be early still, too early for the ambassadors, too early for those that need not do much more than argue after the morning meal.

Shana walks behind her, the head handmaiden quiet in her shadow. A servant passes them by, the young boy bows, smiles and seems to blush just barely as Lexa gives him a short nod of her head.

“You have spoken to Jass?” Lexa asks.

“Yes, Heda,” Shana answers.

Shana’s answer is enough for Lexa to know that the other handmaidens will already know what to do, may already be slowly and carefully taking steps to discern more of whatever it is that happens. And as Lexa continues to walk, as she continues to move through the halls of Polis tower, she finds herself trying to piece together the things she knows, the things she knows that she does not know. Even the things she suspects and believes may be true do not slip her notice.

Lexa comes to a stop in front of heavy set doors. A guard stands beside them, and as she approaches he bows his head before moving to open the doors at her approach. She waits only a moment longer before they finish swinging open with a groan, and as she steps inside she can’t help but to blink at the darkness of the room.

Shelves line the walls of the somewhat large storeroom. Basket of twisted twine hang from the ceiling, tables dominate the centre of the room, each one’s surface adorned with rows and rows of tech, some old, some new, much to be sorted and used. A single ray of light filters down from the high ceiling where a fabric sheet remains the sole barrier to the outside world.

“Close the door,” Lexa says to the guard, “do not allow us to be disturbed,” she finishes with a slight warming of her gaze as the guard bows his head and begins to close the door.

Shana waits until the doors close before looking up at the ceiling, to the fabric, to the ray of morning sun that gives light to the room’s interior.

“You think someone would try to sneak in through the opening?” Shana asks.

“Yes,” Lexa says simply. “If they are to steal tech this is the easiest place to do so.”

“But all this is broken, Heda,” Shana says as she gestures around them. “It is of no use to anyone.”

“That is true,” Lexa says as she begins to move through the storeroom, as she begins to look at each piece of broken tech that has been found, catalogued, stored for some use that escapes her in the moment.

“With Skaikru’s help, this tech could prove useful,” Shana says though, and Lexa watches as the handmaiden begins to think, begins to sift through whatever thoughts exist within her mind.

“Yes,” Lexa says with a nod as she comes to a stop beside a table, whose contents of broken tech spill out across its surface.

“You think it is a member of Skaikru doing these things?” Shana asks then.

“Perhaps,” Lexa says, and it has crossed her mind, she has considered the possibility that not all members of Skaikru are as happy as it would seem. “But I do not think that is the case,” and Lexa continues to think, she continues to consider. “Perhaps it is Skaikru, a member of Skaikru, someone who wishes to keep tech away from others,” and Lexa pauses to think once more. “Or it is not Skaikru. It is someone who wishes to cause chaos amongst the Coalition.”

“Why?” Shana asks.

“I do not know,” and it is the truth. “At least not yet, Shana,” Lexa says. “Watch ambassador Elios,” and she looks up at the ray of light. “He is the most openly hostile to tech,” but Lexa trails off, she lets her voice quieten as she tries to imagine him sneaking, stealing, interfering.

“You do not think it is Elios,” Shana says.

“No,” and Lexa sighs. “He does not trust tech, he is combative. A nuisance, a thorn in my side. But he speaks his mind. I do not believe he would be the one to sneak and steal, Shana.”

“Perhaps it is someone who does not like Azgeda?”

“Perhaps,” and Lexa had considered that, too, if only because she was not so blind as to ignore the fact that Azgeda was slowly returning to its once former self, though under less hostile guidance. Lexa turns to the door then, begins to move towards it and tries to ease whatever misgivings may have taken hold of her expression. “Two handmaidens will guard the interior of this storeroom at all times,” Lexa says as she reaches for the door.

“I will have it done,” Shana says as she falls into step behind her.

 

* * *

 

Arkadia rises up out of the morning mist. Its twisting, hulking body stands in stark contrast to the greens of the forests that sprawl out around it. Azgeda warriors line the hill that looks down upon the slowly growing town. Horses whose bodies long for the cold of Azgeda plains seem to twitch and shift with a want to be let loose. Trikru warriors also sit atop their own horses, their warriors draped in the browns and greens and blacks of their clan.

Clarke looks down and to the guard towers that dot the large wall whose gates remain ever open now. She sees guards already looking their way, and she sees members of Skaikru moving about, some already in the midst of whatever work they find themselves doing, others half asleep and half awake.

Clarke hears the a quiet scuffle behind her, and as she turns she finds Jenma holding the prisoner firmly in place upon a horse, hands shackled behind her back, and a rope tying her arms to her sides. Dried blood has dirtied the prisoner’s clothes, her arm stained a deep red.

“Let’s go,” Clarke calls out quietly, her voice able to carry on the wind.

And so she clicks her tongue and her horse begins to move forward with her command. And through it all, Clarke finds herself trying to gauge just how she is going to get information out of the prisoner.

 

* * *

 

The halls of Arkadia echo out with the sounds of her footsteps. Those who walk behind her seem to carry tempered wariness with each passing step, and as they turn a corner Clarke finds herself face to face with her mother who stands by the doors to the med-bay.

“I was radioed,” Abby says in way of explanation as she eyes the prisoner who stands between Jenma and Leeton.

“Hi,” Clarke says as she moves forward and takes her mother in a brief embrace. “Can you check her out,” and Clarke gestures to the prisoner once more, and as she turns, she finds the woman’s eyes narrowed, her lips just slightly clammy, and her face pale.

And as Abby simply nods her head and turns for the med-bay, Clarke knows her mother already suspects why she wishes for the prisoner to be seen to, she knows Abby already understands that her questioning could devolve into something best left unspoken.

 

* * *

 

It’s odd, it has always been odd, but as Clarke stands aside, as she watches her mother inspect the prisoner, she can’t help but to feel out of place in the med-bay, if only because she doesn’t feel as though walking the halls of what was once the Ark comes as naturally as it had done when she was a child. Perhaps it’s the fact that she wears Azgeda clothing, that, since crashing to the ground, she has spent more time sleeping under the stars in a tent swaddled in furs, than she has slept in a bunk, under synthetic sheets and metal walls.

Ontari stands beside her, the woman eyeing a screen that flashes a patient’s heartbeat, and Clarke can’t help but to smile just a little lightly as Ontari seems enamoured by the beep that echoes out quietly, and as she bounces her head with each little sound.

Clarke thinks she enjoys moments like this though, moments where her people, the Azgeda she has lived with and fought beside, find moments of awe amongst a sea of tech that would have once simply meant that they had been captured by the mountain, that they would soon be bled dry.

“Why do we waste supplies on the prisoner?” Jenma asks quietly, and Clarke looks up to the the red haired woman eyeing that same prisoner with a distrust and dislike that Clarke doesn’t blame.

“I don’t want her to die before we get information out of her,” Clarke says, and she smiles as Leeton seems to listen more closely as she steps closer to Jenma.

“I see,” Jenma says in way of acknowledgement.

“What clan do you think she comes from?” Leeton asks, and Clarke sees her look to Torvun who scratches through his beard in thought.

“I do not know,” Torvun answers. “Not Glowing Forest,” he says after a moment.

“Not Azgeda,” Jenma says.

“Obviously,” Ontari adds.

“Rock Line?” Leeton says as she eyes the prisoner once more.

“We’ll find out soon,” Clarke says.

 

* * *

 

It only takes a few short minutes before Clarke finds herself standing outside the closed doors of what was once the brig. The prisoner sits in a lone chair, her freshly bandaged arm contrasting with the dirt and grime that covers her body from the few shorts days of imprisonment in TonDC.

Ontari, Entani and Torvun all stands aside, each one eyeing the prisoner, and Leeton and Jenma, even Bronat and a few other Azgeda warriors seem to have followed, all in the hopes of hearing answers as to why their travels through Trikru lands and to Polis have been so haphazard.

“What happened?” Abby asks quietly as she comes to stand a little closer.

“It’s a long story,” Clarke says, and she tries to smile as warmly as she can, despite the misgivings in her mother’s gaze for the things Clarke is sure her mother expects to soon happen.

“I’d like to hear it,” Abby says.

“We were in the reaper tunnels,” Clarke says. “We were attacked,” Clarke continues, and she considers how much to reveal for the moment. “We fought back,” and she gestures to the prisoner. “One survived, so now we’re here,” and Clarke doesn’t miss the scepticism in her mother’s gaze. “It’s complicated but I’ll explain more once we get what we need from her.”

“What are you going to do?” Abby asks, and Clarke doesn’t hear any reproach in her mother’s voice, she doesn’t even hear any argument, but perhaps she hears the faintest signs of regret, of understanding and acceptance.

“What we need to do,” Clarke answers as simply as she can.

Abby closes her eyes, but they open after a moment, and within her mother’s gaze, Clarke sees a readiness and an acknowledgement of the way things are now.

“Ok,” Abby says. “Get me,” and she trails off for a moment as she tries to consider her words. “If things get out of hand.”

“I will,” Clarke says as she watches her mother eye the prisoner for another short second before turning to leave.

Clarke waits until her mother leaves the brig before she turns her attention to the prisoner who must have watched the conversation unravelling before her, but Clarke fears not for being overhead, for she knows the confines the woman sits in to be soundproofed, to be kept in the dark and silence as pleased.

“Jenma,” Clarke calls over her shoulder.

“Clarke?”

“Make sure we aren’t disturbed. I don’t want any Skaikru coming in here before we get answers.”

“Yes, Clarke,” Jenma says as she gestures for the other Azgeda who had crowded into the brig to turn for the exit. “We will wait outside.”

“Rock Line?” Clarke asks after a moment, and she senses Entani peer more closely at the prisoner.

“Perhaps,” Entani answers. “She is pale.”

“So not Desert clan.”

“Lake Clan?” Ontari asks.

“I do not think so,” Torvun says.

Clarke sighs heavily then, and she doesn’t even care that the woman sees, if only because she thinks it might help in the time to come, if the woman thinks her patience is running thin, if her want to avoid causing any more pain is coming to an end.

“I just want answers,” Clarke says.

Torvun begins to step forward at that, head cocked to the side, hands already beginning to close into fists.

“Hold up,” and Clarke reaches out, grips Torvun’s arm. “Let me play good cop first,” and Clarke can’t help but to smile at the confusion in Torvun’s eyes, or the odd expression that seems to take over Ontari’s face. “I’ll explain later. Just let me talk to her,” And so Clarke reaches out, unlocks the door sealing the woman inside and she steps forward.

The interior of the cell seems musky, seems unused. The chair the woman sits in remains bolted to the floor, her feet shackled, her arms free. Another chair sits by the cell’s door, its construction metal and just barely rusted. Light overhead shines just a little too brightly, too, its angle enough that it shines into the woman’s eyes, enough that Clarke knows it will cast her face in a shadow once she sits face to face with the woman.

Clarke reaches out for the chair then, and as she begins to walk forward she lets its scrape against the floor, its sound piercing and uncomfortable even to her ears. But, she brings it to a stop as suddenly as she can, she lets it settle onto the floor with a satisfying clang and then she takes a seat, each motion careful and measured.

“Welcome to Arkadia,” Clarke says then, and she leans back in her chair, crosses her legs and makes herself as comfortable as she can.

The woman simply looks her in the eyes, an uncertain hostility tinged with defiance and fear the only thing she lets be seen.

“Did you think more about what I had to say?” Clarke asks, and she lets her eyebrow raise in question.

The woman doesn’t answer though, not quite, at least not in words. But Clarke sees her swallow, she sees her flinch even subconsciously to the reminder.

“You don’t have to talk,” Clarke continues. “But I doubt there’s anyone in the world who would want to be hurt,” and Clarke shrugs, she tries to make the motion as uncaring as possible. “I’m sure there’s people who would accept the pain, would never give up whatever secrets they have if put in the situation you’re in right now,” and Clarke lifts a hand only to drop it again. “But I’m sure there’s people in the world who’d rather avoid any hurt if they could,” Clarke pauses then, and she waits long enough that she knows the woman has time to think over both things she has said. “I know I’d rather not hurt if given the choice,” Clarke continues. “There’s no shame in admitting you’re not fond of pain,” Clarke leans forward, enough that her face slips free from the shadow. “You’d have to be sick to enjoy pain. Wouldn’t you?”

“Teben,” the woman says, and Clarke finds herself surprised at the softness to her voice, at the lightness she hears. “My name is Teben.”

“Your friends attacked me and my friends,” Clarke says and she leans back, “I’d like to know why, Teben.”

Teben looks away, and Clarke isn’t sure if she is trying to gauge whether to explain _why_ they were attacked, or if she simply tries to judge whether to speak at all.

“Why were you in the reaper tunnels?” Clarke asks instead of waiting for an answer.

Teben doesn’t meet her gaze, simply seems to deflate, seems to resign herself to the fact that pain will soon be coming her way.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Clarke asks.

Teben looks her in the eyes at that, and Clarke thinks she sees the woman’s resolve beginning to fray, if only slightly, and she thinks so because she sees Teben’s gaze move to behind her, to over her shoulder where Ontari had stood, and Clarke wouldn’t be surprised if Ontari now did something, now made motions that would suggest pain was soon to come.

“I think you were trying to stop us from finding out what you’re doing with tech,” and Clarke pauses for a moment. “I think you were using the reaper tunnels because Trikru don’t like going into them, and you knew that. You know you’d be able to do whatever you wanted without worrying about being discovered.”

Teben’s eyes close for just a brief moment, but it’s long enough that Clarke knows it to be more than a simple blinking.

“But you didn’t count on Azgeda following an animal into the tunnels,” Clarke continues. “So when we appeared, you panicked, you did the only thing you could do when you realised we found a piece of destroyed tech,” and Clarke leans forward once more. “You attacked us to make sure we wouldn’t explore anymore.”

Teben looks away yet again, and Clarke thinks she knows she has guessed correctly.

“This can end one of two ways, Teben,” Clarke says. “You can start talking, you can answer all the questions we have, or you can start hurting,” she shrugs. “It’s up to you.”

“I do not trust tech,” Teben says, and Clarke feels the smallest of victories at having convinced Teben to admit that much.

“Why?” Clarke asks.

“Because of the Mountain,” Teben spits, the venom in her tone contrasting with the softness of her voice. “Because of the reapers. Because of Azgeda,” and she jerks her head outwards in some direction.

“Because of Azgeda?” Clarke asks, and she hears someone bristle behind her at the mention of their clan.

Teben must sense the anger at what she says though for she flinches, she seems to shy away from whatever expression is plastered on someone’s face over Clarke’s shoulder.

“Because of Nia,” Teben says. “She tried to throw the Coalition into chaos because she wanted tech.”

“So that’s why you’ve been taking tech?” Clarke asks.

“I—” but Teben seems to cut herself off, seems to think she has spoken more than she should for her mouth clicks shut and she shrinks in on herself.

Clarke thinks Teben unlikely to say anything more now, and perhaps she doesn’t wish to push, not more than she has now, if only because getting Teben to talk is better than having her sullen and resigned to silent acceptance of torture and so she stands, she eyes Teben for a long moment and then she turns to the cell’s door.

“Are you going to hurt me now?” Teben’s voice calls after her and it sounds small, fearful, resigned and accepting of whatever is to come.

“No, Teben,” Clarke says as she turns back to the woman.

“No?” and Teben sounds surprised, sounds hopeful, untrusting and unbelieving.

“No,” Clarke says. “I told you. If you talk, you don’t hurt, it’s as simple as that.”


	8. Chapter 8

The cell door closes with a quiet hiss and thunk. Ontari pushes off from where she had been leaning against the wall, Entani eyes Teben’s wounds and Torvun seems to have never taken his eyes off her the entire time.

“Do you trust what she says?” Ontari asks.

“Yes,” Clarke says, and she does, at least a little.

“So what do we do now, Clarke?” Entani adds as she seems to consider whatever it is that comes to mind.

“We talk to the people in charge here,” Clarke answers. “I want to see if anything strange has happened,” and Clarke thinks for a moment about who it could be that is giving Teben, and whoever else is helping her, access to tech. For just a moment, Clarke also considers the possibility that it might be a member of Skaikru, that it might be someone who has become unsatisfied with the current status quo of how tech is shared amongst the clans.

“And the prisoner?” Ontari asks.

“We’ll leave her here for now,” and Clarke looks over her shoulder to Teben who seems to have watched, to have tried to discern what could have been said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

What was once the Ark’s command room still stands awash with a slight blue tint. The wall of panels each shimmering and displaying something different, some reports Clarke is sure outline the progress of projects, others seemingly displaying guard rotations, supply levels, even the whereabouts of hunting or scouting parties that have travelled into the forest.

It doesn’t surprise Clarke to find Anya and Costia both present, both women eyeing the few Skaikru guards who would always be in attendance when Skaikru’s senior leadership met.

It’s funny, too, Clarke thinks, as she looks from Azgeda to Trikru to Skaikru, each member just a little uncomfortable at where they have found themselves now.

But Clarke’s gaze lands on her mother whose gaze hasn’t left hers for a long while, who seems to be trying to find the words to the questions she must have, or perhaps she simply tries to memorise Clarke’s face, the scars etched into her cheeks and forehead, if only because Clarke knows she hasn’t visited nearly as often as her mother would like, especially in recent months with Azgeda having been so shaken.

“So the prisoner,” Abby says into the awkwardness.

“Teben,” Clarke offers.

“Teben,” Abby nods. “Where did she come from? Why is she a prisoner?”

And so Clarke rolls her shoulders, looks up into an overhead light and begins to organise the events of the last few days. She looks down and to those who surround her, and she sees faces she knows, people she is familiar with, who she would trust, though some more than others.

“Not long ago,” Clarke says and she feels Kane lean closer, the man’s gaze curious, she sees Bellamy’s head tilt to the side ever so slightly. Even Wells, who had accompanied them from Ton DC listens with closer intent, despite his knowledge of what she is to say. “I was told by King Roan that someone was sabotaging Azgeda tech,” and she sees Abby blink a few times, she sees Kane nod.

“What’s the evidence?” Kane asks.

“One of the radios was tampered with, it was tuned to a different frequency in the hopes that Echo wouldn’t know what to do, or wouldn’t notice until she needed it to talk with our capital.”

“And that’s sabotage?” Bellamy asks carefully, and Clarke sees the doubt in his eyes, in the way he folds his arms across his chest.

“There’s more,” and Clarke looks away and to her mother.

“The prisoner,” she says, realisation dawning on her.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Teben attacked us,” she gestures to herself and to Ontari, Entani and Torvun. “Those she was with attacked us but we defended ourselves,” and Clarke thinks a moment. “We found tech in the reaper tunnels, it was broken, but as soon as we realised what it was we were ambushed. And Teben’s said enough for us to know that her people — whoever they are — don’t trust tech, blame it for their problems.”

“I see,” Kane says and he brings a hand up to scratch at the beard that seems comically small in comparison to Torvun’s who Clarke notices eyes the motion with a quiet mirth.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Clarke says then and she lets her gaze harden, she lets her voice turn a little cold. “Part of me thinks it’s a member of Skaikru who’s behind this,” and she doesn’t miss the scowling across Bellamy’s face, nor does she miss the raising of Anya’s eyebrow or the way Costia’s head cocks to the side in surprise.

“Clarke, we wouldn—”

“I’m not accusing any of you of being behind it,” Clarke interrupts her mother as kindly as she can. “If I thought it was one of you then I’d be keeping my suspicions to myself.”

“Why not someone from the clans?” Bellamy says.

“They have no reason to want to destroy tech,” Clarke counters. “At least no one whose in a position in convince others to join their cause,” and Clarke thinks it unlikely.

“Why?” Bellamy asks.

“Why would they want tech to be destroyed?” and Clarke gestures around the table to the Trikru. “With tech under Skaikru and Azgeda and Trikru control we’re able to show the other clans how to use it. We’ve got the Mountain to help the clans that need help, to provide more food when required, to help the injured and sick. We’re showing the clans that with tech under our control it can be used for good.”

Those around her fall quiet then, and Clarke finds herself wondering if she has said too much, has laid blame without thinking through all the possibilities.

“Look,” Clarke continues. “I can flood the forests with Azgeda warriors from the Mountain, I can even call for reinforcements, I can have them start searching everywhere for whoever it is that is doing this, but I don’t want to,” and she looks to Anya for some reason she can’t quite find, but all she sees is the woman’s gaze as it seems to study, to think, to gauge and analyse. “But I’d rather do things quietly. I’d rather not start a panic. So if you can help me, if you can tell me anything, then we can do this without things getting out of hand.”

Kane grimaces at the image Clarke is sure her words have conjured, she even feels her mother’s slight discontent, and yet Clarke can’t find it in herself to care, not much at least, if only because she remembers how dangerous tech can be in the wrong hands, she remembers the Mountain, the reapers, even Nia’s ambitions, her dangerous grasp for power.

“I’m not going to let someone else become another Nia, not after the Mountain, not after what happened after its fall,” and she pointedly looks to Costia who she is sure understands what she means for the woman looks away for the briefest of seconds.

“We haven’t seen anything,” Kane says and Clarke sees him look to Abby, to Bellamy, even to Wells who so far has remained quiet. “I’m sorry, Clarke, but I don’t think it’s a member of Skaikru.”

“How can you be sure?” Clarke challenges.

“We can’t,” Kane says. “But we’ll keep an eye out for anything.”

And so Clarke sighs, if only because she knows that for now, things have progressed as much as they can. But, deep down, she can’t help but to feel just a little annoyed that she _could_ actually flood the forests with Azgeda, have them search every little nook and cranny and cave and hidden path throughout the forests until they found the answers. But she can’t. Not if she wants to avoid conflict with the other clans.

“Ok,” and Clarke smiles as she looks from person to person. “Thank you,” and she sighs, tries to clear the slight annoyance she feels building. “But just keep an eye out for anything. Even something small, anything out of the ordinary.”

“We will, Clarke,” Abby says. “I promis—”

A quiet beep echoes out then, the sound rich and deep, quiet enough so as not to be annoying, shrill enough to catch the attentions of those who fill the command room.

“Our scouting parties,” Bellamy says as he turns to a monitor that flashes. “They’re just reporting in, nothing to worry about.”

 

* * *

 

Conversation turns to different subjects as Clarke’s report sinks in. She finds the next few hours pass by quickly, most of what is said to do with trade routes, of rotating Trikru and Azgeda warriors in and out of the Mountain, of sharing in tech, of even what to show next, but through it all Clarke can’t help but to think an underlying sense of suspicion lingers within the Azgeda, within Ontari who eyes the screens with a suspicion, if only because Clarke knows the woman eager for blame to be given towards someone, for a target to be had. And she knows Torvun eyes each person around them, his constant suspicion something she finds most useful in times of battle, in times when a blade may be all it takes to gut her belly and leave her dying on the forest floor in the middle of nowhere. She doesn’t blame Entani, though, for the healer seemingly has tuned out much of what goes on, and has resorted to amusing herself by sharpening her spear’s already sharpened tip in a quiet corner.

But Clarke’s thoughts are broken by a hand on her shoulder a slight squeeze.

“Hey,” and Clarke blinks back the surprise as she realises that people have begun to file out of the room, that her mother stands in front of her, caution and worry in her gaze.

“You disappeared for a bit,” Abby says as she gestures for Clarke to take a seat.

“Yeah,” and Clarke worries her lip, waves Torvun off, waves Ontari and Entani away, the signal enough that they know not to wait for her.

“You’re worried about Teben and whoever is responsible for whatever is happening?” Abby says.

Clarke laughs though, if only because Abby’s description of her worries seems so vague, so unknowing of the facts. But Clarke laughs for she knows it to be true.

“Yeah,” and Clarke rubs the back of her neck, squeezes at the pressure and tensed muscle and tries to relax as much as she can. “It’s the unknowns that are killing me,” and she takes in a deep breath as she leans back into the chair she now sits in.

Abby smiles at that, and Clarke thinks the motion old, tired, happy and full of honesty.

“You look well,” Abby says, and Clarke finds herself unsure of what to say, if only because she hasn’t thought about much more than simply taking one step forward after another, she hasn’t even thought she has had much of a break, of a holiday, even her Northern Hunts hadn’t felt like a holiday.

“I need a break,” Clarke laughs, the words a little too truthful than she had intended.

“How were the hunts?” Abby asks, and Clarke doesn’t miss the slight probing in her mother’s question, if only because she had purposefully kept what she was going to do vague for she knew her mother wouldn’t approve, would fret and worry.

“Good,” and Clarke cant help but to laugh just a bit at the memory of Torvun’s body going flying, or of Ontari’s yelp of surprise.

“I’d like to hear about them, if you’d like to tell me?” and Clarke didn’t blame her mother for wanting to know more, for wanting to reach out to her.

“I’ve been a bad daughter,” and Clarke can’t quite help but to look away, to shake her head. “I haven’t meant to keep out of touch as much as I have,” but she forces herself to look Abby in the eyes, if only because she thinks it important for some reason.

“I was a bad mother,” Abby answers simply.

Clarke reaches forward at that, squeezes Abby’s hand before leaning back in her chair.

“The hunts were cold,” Clarke says, and she watches as Abby clasps her hands in her lap, as she leans forward in the chair. “They’re dangerous,” Clarke adds, and she knows Abby must have guessed that much. “We found an animal’s tracks pretty quickly,” and Clarke can’t help but to shudder at the memory of first seeing just how big the paw prints had been. “We thought we were going to ambush the animal, but it ended up ambushing us,” she smiles though, if only because the memory is a good one, but maybe only because she and her friends had come out of it alive.

“How’d you kill it?” Abby asks, and Clarke doesn’t quite miss the way her mother paused for just a moment before asking, as if she was seemingly unsure of whether the hunts were something not to be discussed with outsiders.

“I fell,” Clarke says and she shivers at the memory, if only slightly. “I ended up on a frozen lake,” and she sees Abby’s eyes widen just a fraction. “The animal followed me onto it, and I broke the ice,” Clarke says. “We both fell through, but I manage to get out before anything bad happened.”

“And the animal didn’t,” Abby finished.

“Yeah,” and Clarke smiles at the way Abby shudders just a little. “But I’m back here now,” Clarke continues as she gestures around them noncommittally. “I’ll be able to move from Polis to Arkadia and the Mountain more often,” and Clarke makes sure she looks her mother in the eyes in the hopes that she’ll see the truth of her words. “I’ll be able to visit more. I will visit more. Maybe you can come visit, too, it’ll be nice to get away from everything.”

“I’d like that,” Abby says with a warm smile. “I really would.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Clarke walks out of the confines of Arkadia, she finds that the sun is already beginning to set, that her day has gone by in a flash. She doesn’t mind though, if only because she thinks it good to have spent that time with her mother. She sees the hundred or so Azgeda warriors and the camp they have set not far out from Arkadia’s walls, she sees the Trikru who have taken place in a campsite that seems much more permanent, too, and she hears the telltale sounds of warriors preparing for a night of rest, some in the midst of training, and others in jovial conversation.

Clarke sees a flash of black hair though, she sees a familiar scowl of determination and the grease stained clothes of a woman whose company she finds a breath of fresh air.

“Hey,” Clarke says as she comes to a stop a short distance from Raven, the woman halfway through pulling apart what Clarke thinks must be a generator.

“Hey yourself ice queen,” Raven answers with a smirk as she flips her hair over her shoulder and squints up at her as the sun shines a little too sharply into her eyes.

“How are you?” Clarke asks, and she eyes a bruise that seems to spread across Raven’s cheek.

“Oh this?” and Raven gestures up to her face as she reads where Clarke’s gaze is directed. “Training accident,” and Raven smiles. “I thought it’d be good to learn some things,” and she shrugs as she stands, wipes her hands off on her pants. “But I ended getting punched a few too many times for my comfort.”

“Oh,” and Clarke can’t help but to grimace, if only because she remembers the days she had spent running from Ontari, had spent trying to dodge kick and punch the other woman day after day. “Yeah,” she finishes lamely.

“Yeah,” and Raven shrugs as she tucks her hands into her pants pockets. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk?” Clarke asks and she wonders if Raven could help, could shed some light on the few things she has uncovered.

“Sure?” and Raven’s head cocks to the side and her mouth pulls at the corner in thought for a moment.

And so Clarke waits until they find a quiet space, somewhere more secluded, where prying eyes and ears are far.

“Someone’s been stealing and breaking things,” Clarke begins cautiously.

“Oh,” and Raven’s eyes narrow. “You want me to fix things?”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head and sighs as she rubs at her eyes. “No, I was just wondering if you had seen anything? Had noticed anything strange or odd?”

Raven hums for a moment, the sound thoughtful, considered.

“Maybe,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Follow me.”

And so Clarke finds it her turn to cock her head to the side as she falls into step behind Raven as the woman weaves her way deeper and deeper into Arkadia, into the small town that has begun to spread further and further.

It doesn’t take them long until they come to a large shed, its doors closed and locked, its walls metal, twisted, rusted, welded together with a haphazardness Clarke finds charming.

“My workshop,” Raven adds as she pulls out a key. “I was kicked out of the Ark,” she says over her shoulder as scrapes the key into the lock. “Something about a safety-hazard,” and from Raven’s tone, Clarke thinks the woman has heard that warning far too many times.

“I see,” and Clarke fights back the smile as Raven mutters something, she is sure to be impolite, under her breath.

“Welcome to me humble abode,” Raven says as the doors slide open enough for them to slip through before she closes them once more.

Clarke blinks at the darkness, to the lack of light and to the shadows cast across the shapes she can hardly make out.

“Hold on,” Raven says, and Clarke hears her fumble with something behind them. But, as soon as Clarke turns to see what Raven fumbles with, lights begin to switch on with a sharp clicking sound that echoes out around them.

Clarke thinks the large shed magnificent in an odd way. Tables fill its interior, each one’s surface littered with broken pieces of tech, some sorted and laid out in neat rows, others much more haphazard and messy in their presentation. She even finds things that seem burnt, broken, and far beyond repair.

“Wow,” and Clarke doesn’t know if her voice comes out sarcastic, awed, impressed, a little teasing or some combination of all of the above.

“Yeah,” and Raven begins to walk forwards. “Wow. Right?”

“So,” and Clarke walks to the nearest table, to where what appears to be a broken radio, lies in ruins. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“Sort of,” Raven says as she walks past Clarke, gestures for her to follow. “See all this?” and Raven comes to a stop at a table whose contents all seem broken, smashed, chipped or dented. “This is all broken.”

“I can see,” and Clarke laughs as Raven’s eyes roll.

“It’s broken,” Raven continues. “But I don’t actually know how,” and Raven licks her thumb before rubbing it against a grease stain on her wrist. “Well, I know _how_ it’s broken. But not _how how._ You follow?”

“Not really, no.”

“I can fix it. But someone broke it and I don’t know who,” and Raven sighs. “Normally scouting parties break things, they fall, get into trouble, things like that. Or a grounder breaks it, and returns it denying they did anything that they shouldn’t have, but I know they’re just too proud to admit they forgot how to use it,” and Clarke can’t help but to smile, if only because she knows far too many Azgeda warriors that would fit that description. “But this?” and Raven spreads her arms before her. “This stuff shows up broken here and there and I don’t have a culprit.”

“And that’s it?” Clarke asks. “That’s all that’s been happening?”

Raven pauses then, seems to think, to consider and to ponder. “Not quite,” and she reaches forward and to a piece of tech that remains in tatters. “See this?” and she gestures to the wires that look like they’ve been sliced, pulled apart.

“Yeah,” and Clarke nods, if only because she _sees_ but perhaps doesn’t quite know what she’s supposed to recognise.

“You don’t know what I’m showing you, do you?” Raven laughs.

“Not quite,” and Clarke feels the tips of her ears reddened just barely.

“It’s missing some wires,” Raven says simply. “At first I just assumed it was because of it getting broken, that pieces were lost in the act of it breaking,” and she bites her lip for a moment. “But now that you’ve mentioned this, maybe it’s not a coincidence,” and she sighs, drops the piece of metal back to the table.

“So there’s pieces of tech missing?” and Clarke’s mind begins to turn, begins to sift through the possibilities. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” and Raven looks around, seems to study the other pieces of tech. “It’s only just random bits and pieces that go missing, I don’t even think someone knows what they’re looking for, but if they know what they’re doing, or even if they get lucky, they could make any number of things given enough time and spare parts.”

At that Clarke’s blood freezes, her mind races to the worst case scenarios and she can’t hold back the head ache she feels building.

“Like bombs?” Clarke asks. “Weapons?”

“No,” and Raven shakes her head. “That’d be too hard,” but she pauses, seems to think, to consider. “Maybe?”

Clarke can’t hold back the clenching of her jaw, or the way her heart begins to beat even faster in her chest at the memories of Nia, of the Mountain and of the wars she has fought in.

“Sorry,” and Raven’s voice comes out quiet and careful, perhaps even remorseful.

“It’s not your fault,” Clarke shakes her head, sighs and forces herself to smile. “Thanks for showing me,” and Clarke looks around and to the other things littered about. “Can you let me know if any other stuff goes missing, too?”

“Sure,” Raven says, but she pauses for a moment, seems to think, and whatever it is must be good for she smiles and begins walking deeper into the shed. “Hey,” and she gestures for Clarke to follow.

“What?”

“Well, I’ve got good news, too,” and Raven comes to a stop by a table tucked away in the far corner. “Think of it as the good news after the bad.”

“What is it?” Clarke asks as she eyes the piping that runs up the shed’s walls.

“I don’t know if you remember,” Raven says. “But ages ago, when we were trying to fix the dam’s generators,” and Clarke thinks back to the time that seems so long ago.

“Yeah?”

“Well, it got me thinking about all the fire hazards in the Mountain,” and Clarke knows Raven means the wood that the warriors have placed throughout the Mountain in the hopes of making it feel less like the Mountain and more like the forests, and she knows that Raven also speaks of the torches that burn and flicker their flames. “That conversation got me thinking, and it’s still in testing, so don’t go telling people,” and Raven reaches out, flips a switch and steps back. “But I’ve been working on a fire suppression system for Arkadia and the Mountain,” and Clarke smiles as a light mist of water begins to spurt out from a tap high overhead.

Raven turns it off before the water can do much more cover the ground in a slight mist.

“It’s not finished, but I thought it’d be good, be able to help the grounders,” and Raven looks away for a moment. “After the missile hit TonDC, I just thought it’d be able to help people if other disasters happened, that it’d help lessen the load if we could help fight any fires,” and she sighs. “Especially because so many buildings are made of wood,” she says. “So that’s my good news to help wash away the bad.”


	9. Chapter 9

It’s cool, the wind whistles through the tent, and the air seems to bring a chill, something not quite as comfortable as the northern winds, but just enough that it makes her heart ache for the cold.

Ontari shifts under the furs, tries to find comfort in the warmth, but she finds herself unable to do so, finds herself unable to find the cold, the chill and the ice.

“Stop,” the murmur is perhaps more felt than heard, more sensed then listened to, but Ontari can’t help but to smile, can’t help but to still her movements, at least when she pulls an arm free from the furs and lets her skin prickle to the cold. “Stop, Ontari.”

“Sorry,” she says, and she smiles as she feels the press of lips at her collarbone.

“You move too much,” Costia says as she lets her leg dance between Ontari’s for a moment.

“It is hot,” Ontari answers, and she finds herself warring with whether to lean into Costia’s warmth, into her heat, her body, or to move away just a little, to chase the cold, to feel the chill of the air.

“It is cool,” Costia counters.

“For you,” and Ontari wonders what happened to her, she wonders when she found herself smitten, when she found herself too happy to fall into this routine of stealing whatever few moments she can steal within the chaotic dance that her life has become.

“You think too loudly,” Costia says, and Ontari glances downwards to see Costia looking up at her, cheek resting against the rise of her breast, eyes sleepy and hair tussled and untamed.

“I think always,” Ontari counters and she flinches just barely as Costia bites into her flesh before soothing it with a kiss.

“I do not appreciate sarcasm,” Costia says.

“But you appreciate this,” Ontari says as she lets her leg shift enough that it brushes against Costia in a way that makes the woman’s eyes flutter for a moment.

“Perhaps,” Costia laughs then, the sound lighter than it had been but still too dark to be free of her past.

“What do you think?” Ontari asks then.

“Of?” Costia says, and Ontari finds herself enjoying the sleep that pulls at Costia’s eyes, that makes her gaze narrow and droop.

“The tech,” and Ontari hopes things to not be as bad as she expects, if only because she can’t quite shake the sense of annoyance that builds at the thought of tech becoming yet another cause for conflict.

“I do not know,” Costia says, and her voice comes truthful and tired.

“Do you think it is a member of Skaikru?” Ontari asks.

“Perhaps,” Costia pauses for a moment to think, to consider. “Perhaps it is the prisoner?” and Ontari knows she speaks of Jaha, of the man that fills her heart with anger, that makes her blood boil.

“Perhaps,” but Ontari shakes her head. “But I do not think he is the one to be responsible for it,” and she pauses, too, if only so that she can settle the beating of her heart. “He is not responsible. He is too closely guarded.”

“Then it is a member of one of the clans,” Costia says. “Someone who does not like tech. One of Teben’s friends.”

“And we will get the information we need in time,” Ontari says as she shifts a little closer to Costia under the furs.

Costia hums a response at that, seems to let sleep pull at her more firmly and Ontari doesn’t mind the way she finds herself settling into the warmth of the furs and the quiet of the night. Costia pulls closer to her still, lets her arm reach around and hug them closer together and Ontari tries to ignore the slight pulling of her shoulder, of the muscle that she thinks never quite fully healed, but not enough to stop her from fighting, from doing what she must.

“Does it hurt?” Costia says, and Ontari hears the worry in the woman’s voice.

“No,” she says, and it is truth, as much as she believes it to be for pain has always been a constant in her life, from training injury to freezing cold.

“No?” Costia asks, voice a little more filled with sleep.

“It does not,” Ontari says as she rolls onto her side and leans into Costia’s warmth.

And perhaps, as Ontari lets herself take in Costia’s face, as she eyes the scars upon her body, the one that cuts through her cheek and just barely touches her lip, to the way her fingers don’t seem quite so straight, she thinks it funny, she thinks it ironic that they have found each other, have both suffered in their own ways, have perhaps grown close because of, and not despite the things they have survived.

But most of all, Ontari doesn’t think she minds the fact that she has fallen for a woman who comes from the trees.

And so she smiles as Costia leans over her, presses her lips to the scar that still seems just a little swollen, just a little inelegant and gruesome.

“Ok,” Costia finishes with a smile as her eyes close and as she embraces what is left of the night.

 

* * *

 

Clarke doesn’t quite know why she thinks that Teben will be more open to talking without others, she doesn’t even know why she thinks it a good idea to disturb what little sleep the woman has had over the last few days. But Clarke thinks it important to at least try to get answers, to try to see if Teben will be more willing to talk in the absence of others.

The insides fo the Ark flicker and echo to the light and the sounds of her footsteps, too. Each path she takes familiar yet distant, something she once knew like the back of her hand, but has long since become more acquaintance than friend.

She passes other warriors, some from Azgeda who have been stationed at Arkadia for weeks, perhaps even months. Each one she passes bows their head lowly in supplication, she passes warriors and those from other clans, too, some wary of her presence, others more openly hostile. She even passes members of Skaikru who she recognises from her past, who look at her with cautioned curiosity.

But Clarke comes to where Teben has been imprisoned without quite realising she has made it so far into the Ark’s depths. Teben stills sits in her chair, her head drooping down in sleep as her chest rises ever so slowly. Her feet remain shackled and Clarke can’t help but to feel the slightest stab of pity.

And she can’t for the woman seems pale in the artificial lighting of the Ark. Her skin seems clammy, almost white, and her hair, dirtied and matted, braids not quite so recognisable after the days of imprisonment.

Even Teben’s features seem full of fear. Shadows linger under her eyes, her arm, still bandaged, just barely shows the traces of her injury with the hints of dried blood that seep through. And maybe, in another life, in another time, Clarke would have thought Teben attractive, would have thought her pretty, even, from the prideful line of her nose, to the sharpness of her face. But all that, Clarke thinks, marred by the actions she has taken, by the things she has kept secret and hidden away.

Clarke shakes her head, takes a step forward and lets the quiet hiss of the cell doors open as she steps through and takes a seat in the only other chair that sits a short distance from where Teben remains shackled in her cold chair.

Teben wakes to the sounds though, the woman seems to startle, seems to flinch away from the place she finds herself, and Clarke watches as she looks around, as she blinks back the harshness of the light before her gaze settles upon her.

“What time is it?” Teben asks, and Clarke finds the woman’s voice quiet, small, fearful and hopeful for reprieve.

“Late,” Clarke says. “Or early,” and she shrugs, would have gestured to a window to the outside if one was present. “People are sound asleep.”

Teben sighs, blinks back the tired and tries to get a little more comfortable in the chair. Clarke thinks the fidgeting of the woman telling, though, and she can’t help but to wonder how long it must have been. And she was no monster, she took no joy in causing suffering when not needed.

“Do you need to relieve yourself?” Clarke asks, and she says it as simply as possible, as straightforwardly as she can, if only because she knows, if put in Teben’s shoes, she would wish for even a little dignity.

Teben looks away though, seems to war with the question, with something within her own mind.

And so Clarke takes pity, steps forward and reaches for the key to unlock Teben’s shackles from the chair.

“If you try to attack me or escape I’ll kill you slowly,” Clarke says, and she knows Teben understands the threat. “And if you do actually kill me, then Azgeda will punish you,” and Clarke sees Teben nod an understanding at that, too. “Don’t take long,” Clarke finishes as she pulls Teben to her feet and guides her to the single bathroom in the brig, its size far too small to be comfortable.

As Teben steps inside as awkwardly as her shackled feet allow, Clarke finds herself leaning against the nearest bulkhead, her mind trying to sift through the things she knows, and she thinks it time she travels to Polis, to those who can provide more answers, and she wonders what will await her, she wonders if the ambassadors will accuse her of taking more time than needed, or if they have been told of Roan’s suspicions. But perhaps most of all, she finds it annoying. And she finds it annoying that life hasn’t quite taken a turn for the easy, for the simple, where her only job was to enjoy each day as it came.

But she doesn’t mind, not really. If only because she enjoys working, she enjoys doing what she can for her people. And perhaps she does for it keeps her mind off the things she has done, if keeps herself from second guessing every choice she has made, every decision she has come to, and every life she has taken, from the first of the reapers she faced, to the Mountain, and to those that had threatened to throw the Coalition into chaos under Nia’s rule.

Clarke hears the flushing of the plumbing then, and she also hears a yelp of shock, of surprise, fear and uncertainty. She can’t quite fight back the smile though, for she realises that Teben must not have known of the tech behind Skaikru waste removal, of its automatic functions that stole away what it could as quickly as it could lest it spread disease and infection.

The door opens then, and Teben looks around, eyes just a little wider, hands wet from the water she must have discovered, and Clarke feels that same stab of pity as she eyes the way Teben seems to deflate, to accept and to understand that her life has turned into something Clarke is sure she never anticipated.

“Tech’s not all bad,” Clarke says as she reaches forward, takes Teben by the upper arm and begins to direct her back to her cell.

Teben doesn’t answer, at least not in words, but the way her gaze doesn’t meet hers, from the way Teben seems unwilling to meet Clarke’s questioning look, Clarke thinks it answer enough.

And so Clarke finds herself sitting in front of Teben once more, the woman’s feet shackled to the bolt in the ground, arms resting in her lap and her eyes wary and curious.

“How’s your arm?” Clarke asks and she gestures to the bandage.

“Sore,” Teben answers with a shrug, with a guarded simplicity.

“It must have hurt,” and Clarke doesn’t say it to gloat.

“It did,” Teben says.

And Clarke thinks that she has guessed correctly, that her belief that Teben would talk without others was correct.

“Why’d you do it, Teben?” Clarke asks, and she lets herself lean back in her chair, she lets herself try to seem as unthreatening as possible.

But Teben looks away at the question, she seems to peer into the corner of the room, to a shadow, to anywhere but where Clarke sat.

“This has been the longest I have gone without being able to see the sky, the sun or the stars,” Teben says, and Clarke watches as she looks up, looks into the artificial light overhead.

“That can change, Teben,” Clarke says.

“This tech,” and Teben shrugs, gestures around with her uninjured arm. “It makes noise,” and Clarke knows Teben talks of the quiet buzzing of the powerlines that snake their way through the walls of the Ark, that provide enough power to keep the lights running, the automatic doors operating, and any other number of technological marvels.

“It’s annoying, isn’t it?” Clarke says, and she can’t quite fight back the small smile as Teben nods and scowls up at the light.

“Tech is dangerous,” Teben says, and she looks away from the light and to Clarke. “All it has done is destroy and cause conflict,” and Teben shakes her head as if to cast aside any doubt that might have been creeping into her thoughts.

“Do you really believe that?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” and Teben meets her gaze, the woman seems to harden her resolve as much as she can.

And so Clarke sighs for she thinks this conversation has come to an end, if only because Teben doesn’t try to stifle the yawn that comes next. Clarke stands, looks at Teben for a long moment and she wonders what the woman thinks of her, wonders what she must look like to others who only know of her through her actions, through the stories she knows are told of her deeds.

“If you didn’t like tech,” Clarke begins, “there were better ways of dealing with it than attacking me and my friends, and of stealing, destroying.”

“Maybe,” Teben says and the woman smiles sadly, and perhaps, if only for a second, Clarke thinks she sees the barest hints of regret in Teben’s eyes.

“We’re going to Polis soon,” Clarke says as she turns for the door. “The Commander probably won’t be as forgiving as I’ve been.”

 

* * *

 

It isn’t that she dislikes scars, it isn’t even that she thinks them gruesome to look at, for she is a healer, has always been exposed to the wounds of others, but still, she can’t quite find it in herself to think of the scar across her ribs as anything other than a blemish, a curse of sort, perhaps even a taunt.

Entani sighs, pulls the rest of her shirt over her head and lets it drop to the bed with little more than a quiet thump. The wound caused by the trap the Mountain Men had set, that had been healed with tech, still seems to ache in the cold. The wound, she knows, will always be with her, always remind her of the betrayal of who had once ruled Azgeda, and she finds herself feeling a disappointment, something simmering, not quite so strong as to cause her to rage into the night, but not so simple that she can ignore its existence.

She doesn’t mind though, if only because she thinks the wound’s scar intriguing, if only because she has now seen Skaikru healers see to other wounds, has seen them perform surgeries on those who would have once been maimed for life.

“Entani,” she hears her name called out quietly, and so she looks up, looks to the tent’s entrance to see Torvun’s head poking through. “Hunters have returned. There is food if you wish,” and she sees him gesture behind him.

She nods then, if only because she does feel hungry, and she goes to stand, to rise to her feet.

“Stay,” and Torvun shakes his head. “I will return with food soon.”

And so Entani sits back on the bed, pulls her spear from where it lies by her feet and begins to run her whetstone over its sharpened edge.

She can’t help but to wonder where Ontari has gone, but she thinks she knows, she thinks she has an idea, and Entani can’t help but to think of Clarke, too, of what she must be doing, of how she had seen her friend talk to the dark haired woman. But Entani doesn’t mind Clarke going off with others at times when her mind is in turmoil. And she doesn’t for she enjoys not worrying of things larger than herself, not quite at least.

And Entani likes her life, she likes the role she plays, that her friends rely on her to be the levelled headed one, to be the one who helps them when they hurt, when they fall, when they think themselves lost. And perhaps that is why she had become a healer, had chosen that over a scout, over a warrior, over any other trade she could have chosen.

She hears Torvun’s feet returning though, the man’s footsteps surprisingly quiet for just how large he is. She hears her name called out once more, and she knows Torvun doesn’t quite like to intrude, if only because he always sees himself as a guard, that he takes his role as protector of Clarke as seriously as he would any other role as a royal guard.

And yet, Entani thinks Torvun has earned a break, has earned a reprieve, earned a little time for himself. And so she calls out a quiet _come in._

It isn’t quite comical, but Entani smiles as Torvun’s head pokes back into the tent, as he eyes the interior for a moment.

“Come, Torvun,” and she shifts further onto the bed, if only to give him more space. “Clarke is away. As is Ontari.”

And so Torvun thinks for a moment before accepting with a heavy sigh.

“How is your wound?” Torvun says as he ducks into the tent, comes to sit on the beds edge and passes one plate towards her, the other held in his hands.

“Ok,” Entani shrugs and she looks back down to her ribs, to the wound that is now more scar, less raised than it had once been. “Not fully healed,” and Entani knows it will take time, that wounds as severe as hers was will always take a long time to fully heal. “How is your new scar?” and she smiles as Torvun runs a finger across the scar that just barely missed his eye in the training accident what seems like so long ago.

“Mighty,” Torvun says with a laugh, and Entani doesn’t hold back the rolling of her eyes.

“So,” and Entani leans back into her pillows, pulls the plate onto her chest.

“So?” Torvun asks as he settles himself more comfortably on the corner of the bed.

“What is new, Torvun?”

And contentedness, Entani thinks, is the emotion she feels in the moment, with a friend before her, a meal shared between them, and an adventure she is sure, to unfold in a way they will never expect.

* * *

 

“Heda,” Gustus begins, and Lexa can’t hold back the slight groan that escapes her.

“I know, Gustus,” Lexa says, and she smiles as Shana rolls her eyes subtly.

“Titus will not approve,” and she knows Gustus only says what he says simply because he worries.

“Titus does not approve of many things,” Lexa counters, and she grimaces just a little as she feels a tug in her hair.

“You worry too much, Gustus,” Shana adds, and Lexa finds herself ever intrigued by just how well Shana seems able to pronounce the man’s name the same as she does.

“It is my duty to worry, Shana,” Gustus counters, and Lexa feels the man’s body shift a little as he seems to deflate just a little at the acceptance of her actions.

“You should not fear, Gustus,” Lexa adds, if only because this is not the first time she has used Shana as a decoy. “Shana fools many, and I will be with my handmaidens. There is little to worry for.”

“And yet I worry every time,” Gustus says.

Lexa simply smiles though, turns from Shana and eyes herself in the large mirror that dominates a corner of her washroom. And it’s odd, even thought it isn’t the first time, Lexa thinks it will always be odd that she wears clothes that are just barely too large or too small, that change her posture enough to throw others off, and that her hair is braided in a way so vastly different to that of what she is used to. Lexa turns to Shana then, eyes the long coat that falls to the floor and the red sash that drapes down one side of Shana’s body.

“Heda,” Lexa says with a smile as she bows her head.

“Handmaiden,” Shana answers with the slightest raising of her chin. “Come, Gustus,” Shana continues as she turns for the door. “We must not keep Titus waiting any longer.”

 

* * *

 

The forest breathes around Lexa, its scents cleaner, crisper, more free than any scents that wove their way through Polis. Trees reach up into the skies and the early night feels more alive than Lexa can ever remember it being.

Or perhaps it is simply because this is the first time in what seems like months that she has had away from ambassadors, that she has had without worrying about what the next argument will be, or even whether consensus will be made before it is far too late for her to even think of having a full night’s sleep.

But Lexa stops, she pauses, looks around herself, to the dark of the shadows, the swaying of the leaves and the quiet murmurings of the forest. Jass stills beside her, the handmaiden sure in her own movements as she draws an arrow, sights down its shaft and looks out into the forest. Other handmaidens fan out too, each one careful in their movements as they try to find the source of the movement, of the sound that had broken the silence.

A low hoot echoes out around them, and Lexa knows one of her handmaidens has found a trail, has found where the animal must have travelled and so she answers the hoot with her own quiet birdcall, the sound familiar on her lips.

She senses movements overhead, she knows one of her handmaidens who has scaled the trees has already begun to move, and she knows too that the hunt will be swift, will be fast, precise and as perfect as any could be.

Jass meets her gaze then, the woman’s eyebrow quirked up, and Lexa answers the questioning gaze with a nod. And so Jass smiles reaches out and takes a stick in her hands before snapping it with a clenching of her fist.

The sound breaks the silence, it startles a bird somewhere in the trees. But Lexa hears and sees the animal they hunt. She sees it dart from the bushes, she sees it rush forward, away, deeper into the undergrowth.

But the handmaiden in the trees sees it too, and Lexa can’t help but to marvel as she sees the woman leap from branch to branch, her eyes focused on the animal as she keeps track of its motions.

The others with Lexa move, too, one leaps forward, an arrow fired more quickly than Lexa could quite see, but the arrow must miss, if only just barely, for she hears the woman curse even before the arrow hits a tree trunk of the ground and Lexa knows the woman must have already known as soon as she fired that she would miss.

But Lexa doesn’t mind, doesn’t care. And she doesn’t for she didn’t choose such a small animal to hunt, she didn’t choose a time where shadows overwhelmed sight for it to be easy.

And so she leaps forward, she begins darting past tree and bush, over fallen tree trunk and rock and stone. Handmaidens follow, too, each one quick, sure, certain in their motions as they begin to circling, as they begin to spread out, to try to cut off escape.

Lexa feels the smile on her lips, she feels the wind in her hair and she can’t quite fight back the bark of laughter as she senses one handmaiden trip, slide and fall to the ground in the slippery underbrush only to roll onto her feet without breaking a step.

And it’s fun. It’s fun, and it’s exhilarating. It’s carefree to rush through the trees without worry of those that would see her. It’s wonderful to feel the wind in her hair, to feel the blood pumping through her veins, the beat of her heart and the air that fills her lungs. And as Lexa leaps over another fall tree, as she reaches for an arrow in her quiver, she can’t help but to think she misses the moments like this, where her days were spent in conflict, where her decisions and actions and choices had immediate results, where her word was law, where all that was important in the moment was herself, her weapon and whoever it was that she faced.

Jass scaled a tree, seemed to pull herself up branch after branch without quite touching the tree, and as she pushed off, Lexa found herself marvelling at the way the woman curved in the air, seemed to give herself enough space above the bushes to fully see the animal, and she fired, her arrow snapped forward and she hit the ground with a roll before coming to her feet. Lexa knew Jass must have hit her mark though for the woman came to a stop, a victorious smirk on her lips as she raised her arms in victory.

“I win,” Jass says simply as she turns in a circle and gestures to the other handmaidens who come to a heaving stop around them.

“It was a lucky shot, Jass,” someone calls out and Lexa looks to the sound to see the other handmaiden, this one younger than most, raising the small animal, the arrow Jass fired embedded in its heart.

“It was skill,” Jass counters, and Lexa can’t help but to think she would enjoy living like this forward, surrounded by those she trusts the most.

“Come, Jass,” Lexa says as she eyes the animal now in Jass’ hands. “You caught the animal. You must feed us,” and Jass rolls her eyes.

“But Heda,” Jass begins with feigned annoyance. “If I am the victor, should I not be free to d—”

The forest erupts with a booming echo that bounces off the trees, that fills the air, that sends Lexa to the forest floor in shock and surprise. Jass drops the animal, darts over to her and almost flings herself atop Lexa, even the other handmaidens turn outwards, draw weapons and crouch low as they search the forest, the trees and bushes and forest and shadows for sign of attack, for the source of what must surely be tech.

“Heda?” Jass hisses as the booming echo dies out and as she comes off her, the woman’s gaze now void of mirth of humour.

“I am ok, Jass,” Lexa says, and she winces just a little to the ringing in her ears, eyes already searching for the source of the explosion.

“That was tech,” someone says quietly. “Weapons like what the Mountain used.”

“Yes,” and Lexa feels worry beginning to rise, beginning to take hold deep in her core.

“What do we do, Heda?” another handmaiden questions, this woman already holding freshly drawn bow and arrow.

And so Lexa comes to her feet, draws another arrow and grits her teeth as she imagines the words Gustus will say when she returns.

“We investigate.”


	10. Chapter 10

Smoke rises into the sky, the smell of death, charred bodies and plants fills the air, and as Lexa takes in a shallow breath she feels the tingling of her skin and the sweat that drips down her forehead. She never finds it comfortable just how eerily quiet the forest becomes after tech is used. But even now, long after that echoing boom had crashed through the forest, the bird call remains quiet and land animals that would once have scampered through bush and thicket, remain still.

Lexa stands in what must have been a campsite, for supplies lay scattered about, leathers and furs, wood frames of tents, even chests with personal belongings all seem to have been thrown with such force as to render them completely destroyed. Small fires smoulder and burn in patches, their heat contained to just a few small patches of slowly charring grass and bush. Metal shards lie scattered about, their edges torn and ripped and mangled.

But what draws Lexa’s attention the most are the bodies that lie in pieces on the ground, some maimed almost beyond recognition, others almost peaceful in death, the only sign of disturbance being the lifeless eyes that stare out into nothing.

And she recognises the destruction for what it is, and she knows tech is behind this, she knows it can not be a coincidence, not with the things she has been told, not with the things that have happened.

A handmaiden crouches down then, the woman’s hand reaching out for a body that lies at her feet, whose limbs are broken, cracked open to the air, whose blood and organs spill out from wounds too ghastly for Lexa to look upon for longer than a few moments.

“Heda,” the woman says, and Lexa’s eyes narrow as the handmaiden brushes across the person’s face as a ragged, broken, helpless breath to escape past grotesquely charred lips. “This man is not dead.”

And Lexa forces herself to look at the man, whose eyes seem sightless, white and boiled over from whatever searing heat washed across his face, but Lexa sees his throat moving ever so slightly as he fights for breath, she sees his torn lips that reveal blackened gums quivering and she knows death soon to come.

“Heda,” and Lexa looks to Jass who approaches her, the woman’s hands holding broken tech, the remains surely still hot to the touch by the way Jass cradles it in furs found on the ground. “This is tech,” Jass continues. “From their supplies,” and she gestures to a torn crate.

Lexa takes in a deep breath, she holds it for a moment before releasing, and in the time that takes, she thinks over the things she knows, and she wonders just how much of this she will keep secret from most, she wonders who she will keep it from, and she thinks over what Clarke will say when they reunite, what Clarke must have discovered on her return from Azgeda, for surely her delayed return is due to the same problems she finds herself facing.

But she pushes aside those worries for now, if only because she knows she can only deal with what is in front of her right now.

And so Lexa lets out the breath as she kneels down beside the dying man, whose breathing seems more ragged and broken, whose sightless eyes are boiled over, charred and seared a ghastly white.

“Your fight is over,” Lexa says as she pulls a knife from her belt and slides it into his chest. And the motion comes almost automatically, the taking of another life not unfamiliar to her.

Lexa stands, discards the man’s death as yet another thing to weigh upon her sleeping conscience, and as she does those around her stand, they look out around themselves once more and Lexa knows she will need to discuss what has happened with Gustus when she returns.

“Gather any tech you can find,” Lexa says. “Gather the bodies and burn them,” and Lexa thinks it just a little odd that these warriors, these people who lie dead at her feet have no discernible clan markings, have seemingly discarded their origins for some shared belief that revolves around tech that she can’t quite grasp in the mome—

A handmaiden by the clearing’s edge whistles, the sound low, quiet, loud enough for all to hear. Her bow raises, arrow knocked and point glinting in what little of the sun makes it through to the forest floor. Those around Lexa snap around to the sound, some move close to her, one even stands in front and crouches low, her body placed close enough to shield, her crouch low enough for Lexa to still see over her.

They wait, Lexa’s ears strain to pick up any little sound, and she thinks she heard whatever it was, she is certain her handmaiden would not have mistaken the sound for something as simple as forest life.

And perhaps it’s the fact that no sound follows, perhaps it’s the fact that she stands in an open clearing, but Lexa’s skin crawls, she thinks someone wishes not to be found, not to be discovered, and she is sure whoever it is must in some way be connected to the dead that now lie upon the forest floor, to the broken pieces of tech, to the destruction caused by what must be Mountain Man weapons.

“Come,” Lexa says quietly, low enough that she knows only her handmaidens will hear, and she looks out and into the trees. “Burn the bodies, gather any tech that remains.”

And so Lexa looks around just once more in feigned search, shakes her head and shrugs, if only for whoever it is that watches. As the handmaidens begin to react to her orders, she makes a mental note to send one or two out when it is dark, to trace their steps, to track whoever it is that wishes to remain hidden.

 

* * *

 

Ilian tries to tame his breathing, tries to tame the throbbing in his side and the slight ringing that echoes in his ears. The explosion had caught him by surprise, it had startled, shocked, scared the spirits out of him.

But none of that mattered. Not now when Hepoli lies in pieces on the ground, her face unrecognisable, her last experience, he is sure, being the pain and shock and fear that must have flashed through her mind for that one split second before she was torn to pieces. He hardly recognises the others, too, those he has known for years, some for only a few short weeks. But they knew the risks just as he knew them.

And perhaps it was foolish to try to experiment, perhaps it was foolish to think nothing would happen. But it did, and now, as he crouches low in the forest, he can’t help but to curse the blood slowly seeping out from where a piece of metal had just barely sliced through the flesh of his hip.

The arrival of the others surprises him too, and at first he isn’t so sure who they were, isn’t so sure who they could be to have arrived at the scene so quickly, but it becomes clear as the first slips into the light.

He recognises the handmaidens, any who has spent time in Polis would recognise them, and he is sure even those who have never set foot within Polis’ city walls would recognise them from the clothes they wear, from the way they move with a distinct purpose.

He eyes one handmaiden, a small animal slung across her shoulders, and Ilian thinks it odd that they would hunt in such large numbers, would dare to venture out and leave Heda with so few to guard her or to do her bidding. But Ilian’s gaze is drawn to another handmaiden who stands in the centre of them, who eyes a piece of tech and who talks to another, and at first Ilian thinks her oddly familiar, at first he thinks he has seen her before, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Maybe it’s the shock of the explosion, of losing friends who just that morning had laughed with him, perhaps it’s even the fact that his body aches and his ears ring, but it dawns on him slowly, and as he takes in the green of her eyes, he finds himself smiling, if only slightly at the realisation that Heda has left Polis, has seemingly gone on a hunt, to relieve whatever stresses the ambassadors bring her with each new day. He can’t blame her, too, not when he, himself, spends far too much time guarding Elios and attending far too many meetings.

Ilian doesn’t quite realise it at first, but as the handmaidens begin to move, as they begin to shift around Heda, he recognises the alertness on their faces and he knows they must sense his presence, and so he lets his breath even out as quietly as possible, he tries not to move, and he relaxes into the dirt and the shadow of the bush he crouches beside.

And through it all, he tries to settle the loss he feels, the hurt, the anger and the frustrations that seem to constantly be bubbling to the surface with each passing day.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s steps echo out around her. Behind her trail a row of Azgeda warriors, each one well armed, ready and threatening in posture. She doesn’t blame those from Skaikru who seem to take precaution and step aside, she doesn’t blame those who look on with guarded curiosity and she doesn’t even blame the other clan’s warriors who mingle within Arkadia’s walls. But though she doesn’t blame, she can’t help but to feel just a little annoyance at the lack of respect she sees in some eyes, and perhaps in some more hostile warriors she is sure she sees hostility. And yet she dismisses each thing with a rolling of her eyes.

Abby walks beside her, the doctor eyeing a chart in her hands before looking back to her.

“Remember,” Abby continues, “the prisoner’s bandages will need to be changed often to keep the chance of infection down,” and Clarke doesn’t miss the slight scoff from one of the Azgeda behind her who hears Abby’s words.

“I know,” Clarke says and she doesn’t mind her mother’s fretting, if only because it helps her to remember the times less fraught with danger, with violence and responsibility. “And I know what you’re going to say,” Clarke finishes with a smile.

“And what is that, Clarke?” Abby asks.

“You’re going to ask if we really need to move her,” and Clarke sees Abby’s lips tighten just a little as she looks away.

“I know,” Abby sighs. “I know you have to take her to Polis,” and Clarke doesn’t even blame her mother for wanting what is best for Teben, if only from the perspective of a healer.

“She’ll be ok as long as she doesn’t do anything stupid,” Clarke says.

“I know,” Abby says with a weary shaking of her head.

They both turn a corner then, and Clarke sees Costia and Anya standing by the closed doors to the brig, both women in hushed conversation, and Clarke is sure she sees Costia’s gaze move up and over her shoulder and to Ontari who trails Clarke closely.

“You’ll visit Polis,” Clarke says then, and she reaches out, grasps her mother’s wrist gently as she pulls them both aside as the other Azgeda move past, Torvun quick to give her a questioning look only for her to wave him off with a reassuring smile. “When all this blows over, I want you to come,” Clarke says.

“I already visit weekly,” Abby says. “I have the clinic there.”

“Take a break,” Clarke counters with a quick shake of her head. And though Clarke thinks she will never forgive her mother for what she had done to her father, though she thinks it will always burn, always sting in the corners of her mind, she finds herself willing to accept why her mother did what she had done, she thinks she even understands, can in some sick way even empathise with the decision that was taken. And so Clarke thinks it important to reach out with every chance she can take, if only because she knows healing will only happen if an effort is made.

Abby seems to understand what Clarke offers though, for she pauses, looks away and then bites her lip as she turns back to her daughter.

“Ok,” and Abby twists her wrist enough that she can grasp Clarke’s hand and squeeze.

“Good,” Clarke says, and she smiles, nods her head away and back to where they had come from. “I can take it from here,” Clarke continues.

And so Abby smiles once more, squeezes her hand and then turns to leave with just one wary glance to Teben who watches those that stand outside the brig.

Clarke waits until her mother turns the corridor of the hallway before she turns back to the brig’s entrance, to Anya and to her Azgeda warriors who stand by. She even notices Costia and Ontari in quiet conversation now.

“Clarke,” Anya says simply, arms crossed and eyebrow raised just barely.

“Anya,” Clarke says as she nods her head before smiling to Costia, “Costia.”

Costia returns her greeting with a small smile, and it isn’t lost on Clarke that Costia seems to always be warmer towards her, and she thinks it because of their shared connection with Lexa, she even thinks it because Costia seems to be a much warmer person than Anya. Clarke is even sure Anya tolerates her, just barely, and mostly because she is sure Lexa has told her to do so.

“We’re taking the prisoner to Polis with us,” Clarke says and she gestures to Teben. “She is Azgeda’s prisoner, we have a claim to her life,” and Clarke doesn’t miss the way Anya takes her measure for a brief second before looking to the Azgeda warriors behind her, to Torvun who stands close by.

“Ok,” Anya says. “We will accompany you to Polis,” and Clarke didn’t think Anya would have left them to travel alone, no matter how close their clans have slowly been growing since the Mountain’s fall.

“Cool,” and Clarke smiles as she steps forward and towards the brig’s door. “I’m going to check on Teben then we can get out of here.”

And so Anya nods, falls aside and seems content to watch and to take in all that happens around her. Clarke feels Teben’s gaze move to her though, and as Clarke looks through the windowed doors that separate them, she is sure she sees an uncertainty in the woman’s eyes.

The doors open with a quiet hissing before they come to a stop with a thunk, and as Clarke steps through she feels Entani and Torvun step forward with her, Ontari happy to stand at the door’s threshold, her presence not so needed in the moment.

“I am being moved?” Teben asks, and Clarke eyes the bandage across the woman’s forearm, to the fresh blood that seems to not be so fully dried.

“Yeah,” Clarke answers as Entani steps forward, healer’s pack in her arms as she comes to kneel beside Teben. “We’re changing your bandage first,” Clarke finishes, and she is sure Entani moves just a little more roughly than she needs as she begins to unwrap Teben’s wound.

Teben whimpers slightly then, and Clarke eyes the redness of the wound, of its edges that seem a little inflamed, the stitching surely itching and a nuisance.

“Are you thirsty?” Clarke asks.

Teben meets her gaze then, and Clarke is sure the woman doesn’t trust her fully, she even thinks Teben suspects her kindness, or perhaps it’s a lack of open hostility, is nothing but a ruse to lull her into a false sense of calm.

“It’s not a trick,” Clarke says simply. “We’re going to be moving quickly. You either drink now, or you don’t until we make camp,” she says. “No one is going to help you until then,” and Clarke shrugs. “If you aren’t thirsty that’s fine by m—”

“Yes,” Teben says, and Clarke sees her look to Torvun who must be staring at her intently before back to her. “Please,” and Teben shrugs, the motion the only thing she can really do in her captive state.

“Torvun,” Clarke says, and she hears Torvun step forward, large hand coming into her vision as he holds a flask to Teben’s lips. Through it all Clarke never takes her eyes from Teben, and she watches as Teben takes a nervous gulp before leaning into it, seems to embrace whatever kindness is being shown, and perhaps for a moment Clarke thinks she sees in Teben’s eyes the thought that this might be another game, another ploy, something that is merely a sign that the pain may soon come, that Azgeda’s reputation for violence will soon be experienced.

“Thank you,” Teben says, and to Clarke it seems tinged with a sadness, perhaps even a hollow regret and acceptance that asking for the bare necessities is now fraught with distrust and wariness.

“I told you, Teben,” Clarke says, and Teben looks at her. “If you answer our questions we’ll treat you well,” but Clarke pauses. “Or better than we would.”

“I know,” and Teben licks her lip as if in chase of another taste of the cool water in the flask.

But Clarke stands, gestures behind her for Azgeda warriors to step forward, and it doesn’t surprise her to see Jenma and Leeton step forward, both women’s faces painted a deathly white, the eyes blackened a ghastly grey that seems to bleed down and into their flesh.

Teben’s eyes widen just a moment at their sudden appearance, and Clarke thinks the stunt works for Teben flinches away from them, seems to shy away.

“Get her up,” Clarke says. “We’re moving.”

 

* * *

 

The morning is crisp, the air cool, the sun’s light not quite so awake yet. Clarke takes in a deep breath as she lets the cool of the air wrap her body, and as she does so she imagines that each inhale fills her lungs with a calm.

And she isn’t so sure why she does so, perhaps it is because she knows her time away from the ambassadors is soon to end, perhaps she does so in the hope that when she returns to Polis she won’t have to argue for Azgeda’s position anymore than normal, that she won’t have to come up with reason and explanation for every little thing she negotiates for on behalf of Azgeda. Or perhaps it is simple because she feels a tingling in her fingertips, and she thinks it an anticipation, an eagerness to be reunited with Lexa. But that will have to wait. At least for the next few days during their voyage.

“Clarke,” she hears her name called, and as she turns from her horse she finds Abby walking her way, Bellamy in tow, rifle slung over his shoulder, his expression easy as he nods to those he passes that he recognises.

“Hey,” and Clarke runs a hand across her horse’s neck before stepping towards her mother.

Abby looks past her and to Teben who sits atop a horse, her arms tied together in front of her, another rope wrapped around her torso to keep her mounted atop the horse stiffly.

“Do you have a radio?” Abby asks, her voice a little more quiet.

“Yeah,” and Clarke always keeps one close by, and she is sure others would frown on Azgeda having more than the other clans, but she thinks it a simple perk of being both partly Azgeda and a former member of Skaikru.

“Good,” and Abby looks away before she steps a little closer. “It’s not urgent,” and Abby sighs before rubbing a hand across her face. “But with everything you’ve said,” and she gestures around them and to the Azgeda warriors, some already on horseback, others in the last stages of preparing for the journey. “Our scouting parties,” Abby continues. “One hasn’t checked in yet,” and Clarke sees her mother’s gaze harden. “They sometimes get lost, forgot to check in,” and Clarke winces just a little, if only because she knows it must be annoying for scouting parties to go without contacting others for longer periods of time than usual. “But one hasn’t checked in this morning,” Abby says. “Bellamy’s about to go out, look for them, but I thought you’d like to know,” Abby finishes with an awkward shrug. “I’ll keep you informed with the radios.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says, and she wonders if this is yet another small sign that things are connected, that whatever it is that happens is part of a larger ploy, of some foolish person’s attempt to disrupt Azgeda, to throw the Coalition into chaos yet again.

She hopes not.

 

* * *

 

The journey to Polis goes by with little fanfare or disruption. Perhaps Clarke expects things to be less smooth than they are, perhaps she even expects to be attacked, to be ambushed by warriors whose use of tech leaves them as equally dangerous as they are pathetic. But none of that happens, and with each passing hour, she finds herself growing more and more restless for she can’t quite put her finger on the why of the things happening.

Even her mother radios her on the second day to say that the missing scouting party had simply become lost after crossing a river at a bend too far south than they were supposed to, and with that Clarke can’t even help but to think that Skaikru are no threat, not when they seem so oblivious to the ground even with the help of tech.

And yet, she still thinks things are moving below the surface. Or perhaps she thinks herself too paranoid, too prone to falling into the trap of thinking the world is out to get her.

“Clarke,” she blinks back the surprise as she feels someone sit beside her on the fallen tree.

“Hey,” Clarke says as Ontari yawns, passes her a bowl of steaming broth.

“Entani is out hunting with Leeton and Jenma,” Ontari says, and Clarke nods for a moment as she mixes the broth with a wooden spoon before taking a small bite.

“No Bronat?” Clarke asks, and she looks around for the man who so often seems to think things are funnier than they are.

“Jenma told him to watch the prisoner tonight,” Ontari answers, and Clarke can’t help but to think that in a punishment for something he must have done earlier.

“I see,” and Clarke smiles as she leans back against a large protruding branch.

But her gaze lands upon the Trikru warriors who accompany them, and she finds herself eyeing Octavia and Lincoln who both sit by a fire with a few she recognises, but can’t quite put a name to, she sees Anya in hushed conversation with Indra, the gist of which she is sure is to do with Teben, to their worries, or perhaps something entirely different. But perhaps Clarke finds Costia’s lack of of presence unusual, if only because she often sees the woman ghosting Anya’s footsteps almost always.

“Costia,” Clarke begins and she sees Ontari pause midway to bringing her spoon to her lips at the woman’s mention.

“Yes,” Ontari says, her nonchalance not lost on Clarke. “Costia.”

“She’s usually out with the others,” Clarke says as she lifts her chin in the direction of Anya and the others. “Where is she?” Clarke asks, but she thinks she knows already.

“Sleeping,” Ontari says simply.

“In her tent or ours?” and Clarke can’t help but to laugh just a little at the face Ontari makes at that.

“In her tent,” and Ontari scoffs before continuing to eat.

“You aren’t with her?” Clarke asks, and she tries to make her voice as light as possible, if only because she doesn’t want Ontari to think she pries, that she doesn’t approve, but Clarke can’t quite blame herself for being just a little curious to the dynamic she senses between both women.

“I was,” Ontari says. “And now I am hungry.”

“I see,” Clarke says, and she looks up to the sound of a birdcall, the sound enough to let her know that a scouting party arrives, that it is friend and not foe that moves in the forests nearby.

“Yes,” Ontari says as she brings the furs of her collar a little more close to her face as a breeze ruffles both their hairs.

“So,” and Clarke doesn’t think Ontari will be open to discussing much of her personal life, at least not before having a little drink. “You two seem to be spending more time together,” Clarke says.

“Yes,” and Clarke can feel Ontari staring at her with an intensity she is sure would unnerve many.

“It seems serious,” Clarke continues.

“Yes,” Ontari answers, and Clarke thinks that as much as she will ever get out of the woman for now.

“I’m happy for you both,” and Clarke turns to face Ontari more fully now, if only to make sure Ontari can see she speaks truthfully.

And so Clarke thinks she smiles a little more fiercely when Ontari meets her gaze with a bashful smile that seems to betray just how young Ontari truly is behind the fierce exterior she wears so comfortably.

Ontari coughs then, perhaps from a want to change topics, perhaps to try to cover for her smile, or simply because she doesn’t know what else to do or to say, but Clarke lets it pass, and she watches as Ontari turns her attention to the bowl in her hands.

And this Clarke thinks is easy, this calm between friends, when she can forget about responsibility, at least for a short while, enough that she can enjoy the presence of those she cares about.

Clarke knows she will cherish it for as long as she can.


	11. Chapter 11

“We tracked them through the forest, Heda,” Jass says, the handmaiden’s voice just a little more quiet despite their isolation in her quarters.

“And?” Lexa asks.

“They were wounded,” and Jass looks away in thought for a moment. “Favoured their left side over their right.”

“I see,” and Lexa thinks it could be easy to find someone who is injured.

“But we lost their tracks once they entered the city walls,” Jass continues. “In the markets.”

“To be expected,” and Lexa isn’t surprised, for that it the most sensible thing for someone to do if they wish for their tracks to vanish.

“We believe it is a man,” Jass continues.

Lexa pauses then, enough for the things she knows to sink in, to settle within her mind.

“Send handmaidens into the city,” Lexa says, and she thinks it best to keep things quiet, to make it seem as though she searches not for this unknown wounded man. “Observe, try to identify, do not confront.”

Jass nods her understanding at that, but Shana steps forward from where she leans against a table, arms crossed over her chest as she seems to think for a moment.

“Shana?” Lexa asks.

“Titus was angry,” Shana says simply.

“Titus knows his place,” Lexa counters, and she sees Shana’s lips purse a little too tightly for her to ignore.

“More than usual, Heda,” and Shana seems to consider her words more than usual.

“Speak your mind, Shana.”

“He says you can not leave Polis like you did again,” and Lexa knows Shana doesn’t share Titus’ sentiment, she knows Shana would always side with her, but she knows, too, that Shana simply wishes what is best for her.

“And why is that, Shana?” Lexa asks.

“He said that if you must be present at all times, or that he knows where you are at all time for when you are needed.”

It doesn’t surprise Lexa, doesn’t even phase her that Shana must have faced Titus in all his anger. But Lexa doesn’t quite hold it against the man, if only because she knows he takes his duty more seriously than she thinks possible, that he, at times, becomes too focused, too narrow minded to the changing of things.

“I understand, Shana,” Lexa says, and she thinks she must talk to Titus, must make it clear that her handmaidens answer to no one but her, that he would do well to treat them with the same level of respect as she demands. “And Gustus?” Lexa asks, but she thinks she already knows the answer.

“He did not mind,” Shana says with a sly smile. “Perhaps a little,” she adds at the way Lexa’s eyebrow raises. “Only because he disapproves of you leaving him behind.”

“Understandable,” Lexa says, and she doesn’t blame Gustus for disapproving of her actions. “Thank you,” Lexa adds.

As Shana and Jass both bow their heads and begin to walk to the door Lexa hears the approach of feet, and she recognises the heaviness of one set of footsteps to be that of Gustus, and the other lighter pair that accompanies a barely there swishing of fabric to be none other than who they had just been talking about.

A knock echoes out then, and Lexa eyes the door as Shana reaches it, opens it a fraction before bowing her head in greeting before stepping aside far enough for Titus and Gustus to both step inside.

“Titus,” Lexa says as she comes to stand in the centre of her room facing the baldheaded man. “Gustus.”

Titus waits until Shana and Jass leave the room, but as Titus turns back to face her, Lexa sees Jass make a face to the back of the man’s face before ducking out, the door quick to close behind her.

“Your hunt was successful,” Gustus begins, head cocked to the side just a little.

“It was,” Lexa says, and she smiles a brief thing before straightening her back and facing Titus, the man’s brows furrowed somewhere between worry and annoyance. “Titus, speak your mind.”

“Heda,” Titus begins, and his voice seems a little strained. “I do not think it is wise for you to leave Polis again.”

“And why is that, Titus?” Lexa asks, and she knows he would already know Shana has told her of what he said, but she thinks it important that she makes him say it to her in person.

“You are needed in Polis,” Titus says, hands coming together before disappearing into the long sleeves of the robe he wears.

Lexa knows what Titus means though, and she knows he already knows what she will say for she knows him to be no fool.

“We are at peace Titus,” Lexa says, and she sees his eyes narrow a fraction.

“That is easily changed,” Titus warns, worry now tinging his voice.

“The Coalition is strong,” Lexa counters.

“Yes, the Coalition is strong,” Titus says, and Lexa looks to Gustus for a moment to see his expression remain still and void of emotion for now. “But if you continue to make a habit of slipping away then the ambassadors will find out,” Titus says. “They will not approve.”

“They will not do anything.”

“Perhaps once they would not have done anything,” Titus says. “Not when they had enemies to deal with,” and Lexa knows Titus speaks of the Mountain and Azgeda and Nia. “But now they have nowhere and no one to focus their frustrations upon,” Titus continues. “I fear their frustrations will turn to you, to Azgeda’s growing strength,” and Lexa now knows Titus speaks of Clarke, of the forces that accompany her and that seemingly have taken a permanent residence outside Azgeda’s borders.

“The ambassadors would do well to remember the wars fought between Azgeda and Trikru and those trapped between them,” Lexa says. “Azgeda is different under King Roan,” and Lexa believes it. “Our clans growing closer together will ensure the peace will last.”

“Some do not see it that way,” Titus says with a shaking of his head. “They fear it will only lead to Azgeda usurping more control over the Coalition.”

“That will not happen,” Lexa says, her voice now ironing.

But Titus seems to consider her words, seems to consider the way her eyes flash warning and annoyance, and so Lexa watches as Titus bows his head, but she knows this conversation only put on hold, only paused until next she does something Titus doesn’t approve of.

And so Lexa relaxes just a little as Titus changes topics and begins to bring up the most recent requests the ambassadors have, but through it all, Lexa finds herself wishing something more would happen, if only because it would give her something more to do.

 

* * *

 

Noise seems to grow in intensity with each passing hour. It starts quiet at first, but Clarke recognises it to be the signs of life that live at the furthest edges of Polis. Farmers mostly, those who spend their days under the sun. She even hears the telltale sign of violence, of metal ringing out against metal, and of flesh beating against flesh, and Clarke knows that to be the sounds of warriors who train, who continue to ready themselves for war, for violence.

Clarke wonders whether some warriors wish for the peace to end, for something to happen that would give them purpose, give them an outlet for their frustrations. And she is no fool, and she knows even some of her own warriors grow restless, grow eager for a change, for something more. Perhaps she will bring up the issue with Lexa.

But, at the thought of Lexa, Clarke finds herself smiling, if only subtly, for she feels the anticipation already growing after the few short days of travel. She thinks it will be good to discuss things, her suspicions with the other woman, to get a second opinion. But most of all? She finds herself eager to reunite for the simple fact that she has missed her company.

And so Clarke shakes her head, clears her mind and looks out around her. Azgeda warriors ride out behind her, each one’s face showing the signs of eagerness, of looking forward to having the time to rest at Polis, to trade and to barter in the markets, and to pit their skills against the other warriors who so often frequent Polis.

Clarke’s gaze falls onto Teben though, and she eyes the way the woman looks outwards in search of Polis, and Clarke doesn’t know what emotion she sees on the other woman’s face, perhaps she thinks it worry, perhaps even apprehension, or maybe something between longing and sadness. But whatever it is, Clarke puts it aside for the moment, if only because she knows the time will come when she will need to decide Teben’s fate. But for now, she simply wishes to rest.

“Jenma,” Clarke calls out, and she sees the woman look up, the red of her hair dazzling in the midday sun.

“Clarke?” Jenma responds as she winds her horse between others before she pulls up beside her.

“We’re going to have more warriors than are allowed inside Polis,” Clarke says, and she looks over her shoulder, tries to judge just how many Azgeda she now has after some left and some joined between Ton DC, Arkadia and passing by the Mountain. “You’re in charge of those that get left outside the city,” Clarke continues, and she sees Jenma’s eyes widen a fraction in surprise, but Clarke thinks the other woman capable of the responsibility, and more importantly, deserving of it following her actions in the hunt for the last of the Mountain Men, and during the awkwardness of the transition of power between Nia and Roan.

“Thank you, Clarke,” Jenma says.

“I’ll rotate out warriors that are in Polis once we get settled,” Clarke continues.

“I will ensure our camp runs smoothly,” Jenma says, and Clarke can’t help but to smile a little at the way Jenma sits a little straighter in her saddle and squares her shoulders.

“Good,” Clarke says, and as she does so she lets her hand drop to the pack tied to the side of her horse as she begins fishing inside. “I have something for you,” Clarke adds, this time her voice just a little lower, if only because she knows it prudent to keep what she is about to give Jenma quiet and not well known.

And so she palms the small radio and hands it to Jenma who stuffs in into her own pack quickly, the woman quick enough to read her actions as a want to keep things subtle.

“You know how to use that?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Jenma says.

“I’m going to be asking questions in Polis,” Clarke says. “And I’m going to keep you up to date with what’s going on in case it’s something we need to move on quickly,” and Clarke worries her lip for a moment. “If we need to, I want to be able to mobilise our forces and catch whoever is messing with tech by surprise.”

“I understand,” Jenma says.

“Good,” and Clarke smiles as she turns her gaze outwards and to the hazy image of Polis tower that now appears on the horizon. “Hopefully it’s nothing, but it’s better being safe than sorry.”

 

* * *

 

The candle light flickers and the heat of the flame makes his skin prickle and sweat. Ilian tries to ignore the discomfort though, his gaze hardened and his hand steady as he holds the needle to the flame.

His hip still aches, the bone, he is sure, bruised, and the wound still open to the air. Perhaps it’s still shock, perhaps it’s still despair or even the fact that his ears still haven’t quite stopped ringing from the explosion, but he seems to feel empty, seems to be unsure of just what he feels.

Perhaps it’s a loss, perhaps an anger, or perhaps simply a resignation and acceptance that things have happened that are so far out of his control that he can’t do much more than embrace each thing that comes with open arms.

He grits his teeth then, pulls the needle from the flame and eyes the glowing red tip. Ilian embraces the pain as he brings it to his hip, he embraces the pain as his skin sizzles and as the smell of burning flesh fills his nose.

Ilian begins pushing the needle through his flesh, the thread slowing pulling the open wound closed. Tears begin to well in the corners of his eyes, and perhaps he doesn’t know whether those tears are from the pain of dealing with the wound, or whether it’s a pain from the loss of Hepoli, but whatever it is, he embraces it, if only because he thinks it the least he can do, if only because he thinks he hasn’t come this far to give up now.

But maybe, if only for a moment, he wishes his life had taken a different path somewhere far back in his past, before the loss, before the anger and hurt, before the pain and the suffering.

Before he even realises, Ilian finds that he has pulled his wound closed, the stitching rough but practical. His skin feels clammy though, the sweat that drips down his face enough to sting in the corners of his eyes.

Ilian reaches for a small jar, its contents a cool paste. He opens it with a slight pop, and he can’t help but to shiver a little as he scoops up a small amount of the paste, its scent enough to clear the smell of burning flesh. It stings when he begins to rub it into the wound, but that pain isn’t so unfamiliar. He even embraces that stinging, too, if only because he thinks it important to remember the sacrifices he has made, and the sacrifices of those he has lo—

A horn bellows out through the air, its sound rich, deep, booming and distant. Ilian recognises it for what it is though. And perhaps it is ironic, perhaps even funny, that the sound he hears once caused fear to spread like wildfire, that it was once a warning, a threat and a curse. But now he can’t help but to think it nothing more than a nuisance. If only because he thinks Azgeda have always been more brash than the other clans, have always been more quick to anger than the others. And now, with wanheda at the helm of Azgeda’s most fierce warriors, and he connection to Heda, he can’t help but to think it nothing but an annoyance, something to deal with, something to handle in the only way he knows.

“Ilian,” he hears his name barked out through his closed door. “Ambassador Elios calls for us,” the voice says. “We are to join the other ambassadors at Polis towers entrance for Azgeda’s return.”

Ilian sighs, he doesn’t miss the slight annoyance in the other voice, if only because he wishes he didn’t have to spend his days following Elios, didn’t have to listen and listen and listen when only months earlier he was fighting for his clan, for his life, for the betterment of his people. But perhaps even that was ironic, that now, after all he has fought for, he finds his life monotonous.

At least the offical parts. 

 

* * *

 

The streets of Polis remain ever bustling, ever busy and full of people going about their day. Some look up at her as she passes atop her horse, others eye the Azgeda with a wariness, some with more open hostility, but others seem pleased at her return, some seem amused, curious, perhaps even eager. But she doesn’t quite mind for some unknown reason.

Jenma had split off from their main group of warriors and made camp outside the city walls, and so Clarke rides with perhaps half of the warriors she had initially set out with, but she doesn’t mind her lack of warriors at her back, if only because she knows the stark white of the faces of many of her warriors will give pause to any who would still harbour old grudges against her clan. And it isn’t that she anticipates confrontation, but she hadn’t come this far living amongst the clans to be so arrogant as to ignore any potential threat.

People begin to gather further ahead though, and she knows that to be in response to the bellowing horn Ontari had sounded as they passed through the open gates. Perhaps what gives Clarke the most comfort though are the children she sees, those who are too young to have fully grasped what the Mountain had meant, and those who had not been alive during the forming of the Coalition and the violence Nia had inflicted upon who she had thought were lesser clans.

And Clarke thinks she sees awe on the children’s faces, for she knows their only exposure to the violence of her actions to be through the stories she knows are told of her and her actions during the Mountain’s fall and of her role in the upheaval of Azgeda.

A little girl waves up at her from where she stands beside her mother, one hand clutching a wooden sword, its edge nicked, an obvious sign that even the young begin training as warriors as soon as they are able to hold a weapon.

And perhaps that is why Clarke does what she does, perhaps that is why she accepts the role her life has become, that she can try to sway conflict from ever erupting again lest it welcome the youth with open arms.

She rounds a corner then, and before her rising Polis tower, its stone shining a magnificent golden yellow. Weathered rock and stone reach up into the sky, its surface cracked to the ages, its corners smoothed to the onslaught of generations of wind that has swept across Polis.

Polis guards line the entrance way, their leathered armour glinting in the sunlight. Even more people gather close by, and Clarke doesn’t think she will ever grow accustomed to her movements being so openly known.

She sees Azgeda faces amongst those gathered though, their scars enough to differentiate them from the tattoos of the other clans. But what steals Clarke’s attention the most is the shining red sash that drapes down a slender framed body that stands before the tower’s entrance.

Lexa stands, back straight, one hand resting atop the sword hanging from her waist. Gustus stands beside her in his usual place, the man’s large frame enough to dwarf almost all who stand close by. Even Titus, who Clarke tries not to share much time with stands close by, his gaze careful, thoughtful, perhaps even a little disapproving of the scene that her arrival has become.

Clarke takes a moment to register the other ambassadors that stand behind Lexa, those who she finds herself on good terms with, and those who she knows will gladly send their first meeting into chaos. She even sees the faces of the Ambassador guards, some new, some familiar, but each with the same carefully constructed expression of purposeful disinterest.

“Are you ready, Clarke?” Ontari asks quietly, and Clarke doesn’t miss the jest in Ontari’s voice.

“Not really,” Clarke says, and she can’t help but to laugh just a little at the sigh she hears coming from Entani.

“You can not complain,” Ontari says across Clarke and to Entani at that.

“And why can I not complain?” Entani questions.

“You do not have to sit through their meetings,” Ontari says.

“I still have to spend time with them,” Entani counters only for Ontari to roll her eyes in answer.

“Yes, you do,” Ontari says. “You can not leave us to their mercy like you did at the clan meetings when we fought the Mountain.”

“Perhaps I will simply encourage our warriors to train so hard that I must see to them daily.”

“Ok,” Clarke says for she knows argument is about to break out. “Let’s get settled before you two get into an argument,” and she smiles as Ontari scoffs.

Clarke turns her attention back the way they ride, and as she does so she finds her gaze drawn to Lexa’s who now looks at her with an intensity that Clarke can’t help but to embrace. But she shakes her head, if only so that she doesn’t make a fool of herself in the moment.

And so Clarke waits until her horse comes to a stop before Lexa, and Clarke sees the other woman’s lips twitch up at the corners as her horse throws it’s head and nips before coming to an easy rest.

Clarke’s feet land on the ground with a thump, the Azgeda behind her quick to follow her actions, and as she does so servants move forward, some already reaching outwards to take the horses reins and guide them to the stables, but through it all Clarke finds herself stepping just a little closer to Lexa until she is within reaching distance. Lexa’s hand extends, and Clarke meets the motion halfway, her fingers eager as they close around Lexa’s wrist and squeeze.

“Welcome back to Polis, ambassador,” Lexa says, as she returns the squeeze before letting their hands fall away.

“It’s good to be back,” Clarke says, but from the twitching of Lexa’s lips, Clarke is sure her barely there lack of reluctance is heard.

“Come,” Lexa says, “I am sure you are tired. I will show you to your rooms.”

Clarke looks over her shoulder to Ontari though, and she sees the woman’s head cocked to the side as she eyes them both before waving for her to go ahead.

“Go,” Ontari says. “I will handle Teben.”

Clarke smiles at that, begins to walk forward only to stop as she remembers her pack.

“Hold on,” Clarke says to Lexa as she turns back to her horse.

She reaches out, snares her pack and hefts it onto her shoulders, its weight a little more than usual as she moves back to Lexa’s sides

Lexa eyes her curiously as they begin walking into Polis tower, but Clarke simply shrugs, smiles and lets her feet take her to the lift that will take her up the tower and to her quarters.

Before too long Clarke finds herself standing in the lift, its creaking, shaking, unsteady journey upwards an oddly comforting feeling. Lexa stands by her side, the woman a little stiff, a little restrained, if only because Gustus stands directly behind her, as does Torvun stand behind Clarke.

But Clarke looks down as she feels a gentle tapping on her wrist to find one of Lexa’s slender fingers extending outwards from where her hand lies by her side, the motion enough to bring a smile to Clarke’s lips.

And so Clarke mirrors Lexa’s motion with her own finger, and she can’t help but to smile as she feels Lexa step just barely closer to her, the movement, she is sure, the only thing Lexa is willing to do to show her affection until they are alone.

But Clarke shifts the pack on her shoulders into a more comfortable position, and she feels Lexa’s eyes follow the motion with a curiosity, for Clarke knows it normal for servants to bring their belongings to them at a later time. But what she has in the pack is far too personal for her to want to let anyone else come across them.

And perhaps this agonisingly slow lift isn’t so bad, perhaps the wait hasn’t been so bad, perhaps trudging through the snow wasn’t so bad, perhaps shivering in the cold, perhaps fleeing from a raging beast will be worth the expression Clarke is sure she will see upon Lexa’s face when she reveals just what she has done with the beast’s fur.

It better be.


	12. Chapter 12

Her quarters seem untouched since last she stepped foot inside. Her bed remains neatly made, the furs that cover it a shining white in the sun’s light. Even the things she had left about, small books, scrolls full of things she found bordering the tedious lay scattered where she left them. But things are different, too. And it doesn’t surprise Clarke to find that her quarters are spotless, that someone must have gone through and cleaned and cared for it in her absence. The candles that she has scattered about have also been replaced, these ones new, fresh, ready to burn for hours as their scent filters through her quarters.

“I have had your quarters clean, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly, the woman perhaps a little awkward as she stands beside her.

“I can tell,” and Clarke picks up the sounds of Gustus and Torvun both taking their place by her door outside.

But Clarke ignores their presence as she has done in times like this, and she lets her pack fall to the ground with a quiet thud as she turns to face Lexa.

“How were you travels?” Lexa asks, the woman seemingly a little unsure of what to do, her hands held behind her back as she faces Clarke.

“Ok,” Clarke shrugs, the corner of her lip turning up at the corners as she leans against the doorframe, the warmth of the rich wood enough to seep through her furs.

“And your hunts?” Lexa adds, “they were successful?”

“Yeah,” and Clarke wonders how she will reveal her gift to Lexa.

“That is good, Clarke,” Lexa says, and for some reason Clarke can’t help but to laugh, to let herself forget her worries about the tech, of Teben and of whatever else must be happening.

“It is, Lexa,” Clarke says, and she reaches out with her hand, her fingers beckoning as she wriggles them for Lexa to approach.

And it’s not that Clarke is impatient, but it takes Lexa far too long to register just what Clarke wants for her to do, and so Clarke rolls her eyes, pushes off from the door frame and takes a quick step forward as her fingers close around Lexa’s collar and pulls.

Lexa gasps out ever so quietly at the sudden motion, one hand quick to brace herself against Clarke’s hip, her fingers warm as they splay out. But Clarke lets herself lean into the pressure, she lets herself press closer and she places the quickest of kisses upon Lexa, deep enough that she can savour, long enough that she can remember, but chaste enough that she hopes it leaves Lexa wanting.

“Clarke—” she can’t help but to laugh at the way Lexa’s words die upon her lips.

Clarke ignores it though, reaches up and quiets Lexa with a finger places upon her lips.

“I have something for you,” Clarke begins, and she knows she isn’t one for outward displays of affection, at least not so brazen as what she just did, but she can already feel her heart picking up, can already feel her mind telling her to not do it, that it is stupid, foolish, perhaps even childish.

But from the way Lexa swallows heavily, from the way her eyes take a little longer to focus, Clarke thinks it worth it.

And so she reaches down, takes Lexa by the hand, other spare snaring her pack from where it lies at her feet. Clarke pulls Lexa deeper into her quarters, past the small table where they have shared meal, and to the edge of her bed.

“Sit,” Clarke says, and she smiles as she pushes Lexa down onto the bed’s edge.

“Clarke?” and Lexa looks up at her, eyes curious, perhaps a little expectant and full of a mirth.

Clarke bites her lip just once, enough that she can consider once more. But she discards her worries and thumbs the leather strap of her pack as she lets herself take in the moment.

“I won’t be long,” Clarke says, and perhaps just for a moment, she lets her voice lower enough that Lexa should understand.

And so Clarke turns, takes the few quick steps to her washroom that is tucked away in the corner of her quarters. She is sure Lexa’s gaze follows her every movement though, and she is sure she can feel Lexa’s gaze as it drills into her back until the very last moment that her washroom door closes behind her and steals her from view.

Her washroom is large, not overbearingly so, but Clarke is sure it must be larger than most others who are allowed quarters within Polis tower. A brass washbasin sits in the centre supported by heavyset metal slats that keep it resting above a fireplace. A large polished mirror of metal stands against the wall, too, it surface not as smooth as the mirrors of the Ark, but smooth enough that Clarke knows care and skill went into its creation. But Clarke moves to the small table that sits beside the mirror, and she lets her pack rest on its surface.

It doesn’t take her long to pull out the furs of the beast she had hunted, and as she does so she can’t help but to marvel at how soft the fur is. She holds two towels in her hands, as for a moment she brings them both to her nose, the scents that were infused into them still strong and vibrant.

But Clarke’s gaze moves to the other garments she has tucked away in her pack, and just for another moment she feels the slightest tugging in her stomach, as if her mind was cautioning her. But she discards those worries yet again, if only because she didn’t go through the effort of having them created only to chicken out at the finish line. And so Clarke takes in a deep breath as she sets aside the towels and reaches for the first set of the clothing.

It doesn’t take Clarke long to undress, her travel clothes just a little dusty to the days of constant moving. She runs a wash cloth over herself quickly, the water from a bucket unsurprisingly warm. She even makes sure to dab a slight spice over herself, its scents enough to lessen her worries.

Clarke turns to face her mirror fully then. Dimmed sunlight streams in from a window recessed high in the wall, and as Clarke eyes herself, she can’t help but to notice just how pale much of her body is save for her hands and half her forearms where she rolls her furs up to, and her face and neck, and the slight v that dips between her collar bones from where she opens her collar.

And though Clarke thinks of herself as someone not obsessed with her form, not obsessed with needing to appear a certain way, she can’t help but to compare the body she now carries with that of the girl who had first come to the ground, who had been always slightly too thin from a constant lack of nutrients, who had never felt the sun’s light upon her own flesh. But now, what some would consider weak, appears strong, full, the dips and valleys of her body tell a tale of a life of hardship, of constant physical exertion, of training day after day, whose muscles have hardened to the weather, whose flesh calls pain a companion, and whose skin knows suffering as a friend.

But perhaps for only a fraction of a second, Clarke can’t help but to think that she looks good, that she looks healthy. That she feels strong.

Clarke’s gaze turns to her scars, and she lets herself take in the slashes down both her cheeks, that start at the corners of her eyes just below her temples and dip down to the corners of her lips, she lets herself trace the prominent _V_ that etches itself across her forehead, its presence a shining beacon of exactly which clan she belongs to. Even the braids that pull her hair back at the temples, mark her as different to most, if only because they are _hers._ But all those things that she sees, all those little marks upon her body tell a story unread by some and fabled to many.

And so Clarke reaches for her pack, and pulls the first set of scant clothing free, and she can’t help but to bite her lip as she pulls the fur clothing up her legs, and as she settles it, perhaps for a moment, Clarke feels yet another spike of embarrassment. But, she discards that as easily as she has discarded all those other worries, and she reaches for the last piece of clothing, it’s cut and shape enough to support, hardly enough to cover.

Before long Clarke finds herself with a hand reaching for the door to her washroom as the cool air around her prickles her exposed skin. She lets herself pause for a moment as her ears pick up the slight sound of Lexa’s foot that she thinks must be tapping against the floor, the sound enough for Clarke to know Lexa to be curious, perhaps even intrigued as to what she will soon find.

Clarke takes a moment to look over her shoulder and to the towels that still lie folded upon the small table by the mirror, and she can’t help but to cast her gaze over her reflection in the mirror, and for a moment she lets herself appreciate the way the white of the fur she furs highlights her figure in the light. But she turns back to the door, shakes her thoughts free and she pushes it open.

Clarke steps from her washroom, she lets the thud of the door closing behind her draw Lexa’s attention, and Clarke can’t help but to smirk all too satisfactorily at what she sees.

Lexa’s head turns from where she looks out a window. Lexa does a double take, her head seemingly stunned as it looks to Clarke only to look away as if she has seen something she isn’t supposed to see. Even Lexa’s foot stops tapping mid motion, the toe of her boot midway in the air. But Lexa swallows as Clarke takes a step forward, her motions feline, careful and purposeful. Lexa’s gaze widens then, her lips part and Clarke feels a barely-there flush creep across her flesh as Lexa’s eyes wander, as they begin to move down to her chest before moving a level lower.

“Cla—” but Lexa can’t seem to find the words to say for her voice seems dry, seems broken and hoarse, and Clarke lets herself marvel in the reaction as Lexa’s eyes snap back to her face as if in self reprimand for having looked where she should not have looked.

“It’s ok,” Clarke says, her voice more husk and whispered breath than spoken word. “You can look,” and Clarke stops before Lexa, and she lets herself look down at the woman, and she knows now that the sun’s light streams in from behind her, that it must cast her in a golden glow, that it must send deep shadows across chest, across the dips of her body.

“I—” but yet again Clarke thinks Lexa doesn’t quite know how to react.

Clarke smiles, for she thinks Lexa’s inability to form words must be a compliment. And so she reaches forward, takes Lexa’s face in her hands and bends down and places the slowest of kisses upon her lips before breaking it with a more than purposeful moan.

“Happy anniversary.”

 

* * *

 

The dungeons of Polis are almost cute, Entani thinks, as she continues to walk past cell after cell. And she thinks the dungeons cute because there is no constant drip of melting ice water to act as a constant torment. There is no freezing chill that bites deep into her body, and there is even no ice underfoot that freeze parts of the stone in unpredictable ways making it all the harder to walk, especially for any prisoner with shackled ankle.

Prisoners, some standing, others pacing back and forth, some trying to pass the time by chasing sleep, fill perhaps almost half the cells she passes. But even the way the prisoners are treated seems kinder than in Azgeda for all don’t seem to be shackled to the wall with hardly space to move unlike Azgeda prisons. But still, she thinks she wouldn’t want to be a prisoner in Polis either, if only because all clans are harsh in their own ways, Azgeda simply happens to treat their own prisoners just that little bit worse.

“Here,” the man says, and Entani eyes the cell that man holds open, its interior dark, cold, floor littered with hay she is sure was rejected by the horses.

“In,” Ontari snaps as she pushes Teben forward, and Entani can’t help but to wince just a little as Ontari seems not to care for the woman’s injured arm.

But Teben must take it in her stride for she manages to catch herself before falling despite the way her hands remain tied together.

“I will check her wound,” Entani says as she looks over her shoulder and at the Polis guard who has accompanied them down the dungeons.

“She deserves none of your treatment,” Ontari says as she begins to move for the door.

But Entani ignores Ontari’s words and she steps closer to Teben who has already found a somewhat awkward place to sit on the hay covered stone.

“Light,” Entani says to no one in particular, but she senses Ontari turn back to her, a torch surely in her hands for flame lights the cell more fully. “You are lucky,” Entani continues as she takes a hold of Teben’s wrist, the woman wincing yet again to any movement of her wounded limb.

“I know,” Teben says, and her voice seems tired, seems resigned now that she has arrived at a seemingly more permanent place of imprisonment.

Entani begins to unbind the wound, the wrap just slightly dirtied from blood that has dried, but as she pulls the last of it away Entani finds that the wound seems to be healing as well as can be expected, the edges just a little inflamed and red, but no more than she would have hoped for.

“Move your fingers,” Entani says, and she eyes the way Teben’s face twitches with the pain of doing so, but Entani finds herself satisfied that Teben’s fingers move with little resistance.“You are lucky Torvun did not strike more viciously,” Entani says, and she knows Teben must know Torvun could have maimed her if he desired, as does she know Teben must realise Torvun struck as cleanly as he could for the wound is too simple, too easy for it to be anything less.

“I know,” Teben says as she winces at the slight prod Entani does as she checks the surrounding tissue with a careful finger.

Entani wonders why Teben has a dislike for tech though, and it isn’t that she can’t understand _why_ Teben would have a dislike for it, but perhaps she can’t quite piece together why now, after tech has been used to heal, to help and to aid, that Teben and whoever else shares her views, are trying to do whatever it is they try to do.

“Tech is not all bad,” Entani says, and she meets Teben’s gaze with enough intensitythat the other woman breaks eye contact.

“Yes,” Teben says as she seems to find a spot on the wall to stare at. “It is.”

“Why?” Entani asks, and perhaps morbid curiosity is what gets the better of her, perhaps simply wanting to know why Teben tried to kill her and her friends is enough for her to humour Teben, to be kind to her, if only to pry anything from the woman.

“You must ask me why I think tech is bad?” Teben says, and perhaps this time her voice comes out with just a hint of derision, enough that Entani knows she has struck a cord, not enough for her to think the conversation soon to end.

“Reapers,” Entani shrugs. “Mountain Men,” and she pauses for a moment to steal herself to what she is about to say. “Kwin Nia—”

Teben snorts, “that is explanation enough,” and Entani can’t blame her.

“You have not answered my question,” Entani says instead of falling into argument, and she knows she senses Ontari’s glare, Ontari’s annoyance at Teben’s words.

But Entani thinks she has heard enough, or perhaps has humoured Teben enough, and so, satisfied with the wound’s state, Entani stands, eyes Teben for just a moment longer before turning to the door. But as she reaches it, and as Ontari steps aside for her to pass through, she hears Ontari speak out with a kindness that is all too feigned.

“You are lucky,” Ontari says. “That you have information we need. We are much less kind to those who are useless to us.”

 

* * *

 

The walk back through the dungeons passes quickly, the Polis guard who accompanies them seemingly content to follow. But Entani sighs as they come to the exit, the sun’s light enough to make her squint for a moment and blink through the brightness. Ontari stifles a yawn beside her, the woman clearly eager for something more to do.

“What do you think?” Entani asks, and she watches as Ontari squints and considers her question for a moment before answering.

“I do not know,” Ontari says. “Perhaps Teben was taken for a fool and does not truly believe in what she does,” Ontari pauses, looks around and to the warriors and city people who move about them. “I do not know if she knows why she is supposed to hate tech, or if she simply thinks she must because someone else told her.”

“You can not blame anyone for hating tech,” Entani counters as she waves a farewell and a thanks over her shoulder and to the Polis guard who finds a place outside with others who must be on duty guarding the dungeons.

“No,” Ontari says heavily, and Entani knows she thinks of the times both fo them have needed the aid of Skaikru and their tech. “I can not blame her for disliking tech, but she is a fool to think it can not help us now.”

“Yes,” Entani nods. “She is a fool.”

* * *

 

Ilian had been hard pressed not to do a double take, not to gape and curse aloud as his gaze had fallen on Teben being escorted by two Azgeda and a Polis guard. And he was thankful that Teben hadn’t seen him in the streets, too, for he was sure she would have been too obvious in trying to ignore him, especially by the way one of the Azgeda warriors had been glaring at her fiercely.

He continues moving through the streets, his mind trying to sift through the things he now knows. And he thinks it can’t be a coincidence that Wanheda has returned and that Teben is now seemingly a prisoner within the dungeons under guard by Azgeda warriors. And he thinks it not quite a setback, not quite as ruinous as others might think, but he knows he must do something, if only because things are too far gone now to risk it all on someone who shouldn’t even be in Polis, who should be safely squirrelled away near Arkadia and the Mountain with the others.

And yet, as Ilian begins to consider what Teben’s capture must mean, he thinks it likely, perhaps even certain that things have gone wrong, that something or someone has made a mistake.

He knows he hasn’t come this far, hasn’t moved through the shadows and lied and threatened and almost been caught countless times to react too quickly, and without little thought or planning. But for now, Ilian settles for simply alerting the others of what has happened, if only because he knows they must be cautious, at least until he can deal with the problem that is Teben.

 

* * *

 

Clarke always marvels at the way Lexa seems to shift from hardened warrior to someone who seems far too young to have lived with such weight upon her shoulders. But as Clarke lets her gaze take in the way her chest rises ever so slowly with each breath, and the way her hair seems to fuzz at the nape of her neck, Clarke can be forgiven for thinking of Lexa as anything other than a young woman who has perhaps only just begun to find her place in the world.

Clarke can’t even help but to wonder exactly how old Lexa is, whether they share the same month, whether they even share the same year. There’s some uncertain part of Clarke that thinks Lexa is older than her, too. For just a moment Clarke finds herself trying to remember how old even she is, and it takes her longer than she would like to admit that she forgets what year it should be, what month it should even be.

But perhaps she doesn’t mind, if only because, despite the trials she seems to always face, she enjoys what her life has become.

“You think too loudly,” Lexa says, and Clarke’s gaze settles on her face to find that her eyes are still closed, but that she has rolled onto her side to face her, a hand tucked under her head as her hair falls across a sleep cheek.

“What makes you think I’m thinking at all?” Clarke challenges, her voice light as she props herself up on her hand.

“I can sense your gaze on me,” Lexa says simply.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Clarke.”

Clarke laughs, albeit lightly and she finds herself happy to stare at Lexa’s face, but she sees Lexa’s eyes open with a laziness that seems at odds with the scars she can see littered across what little exposed flesh visible to her.

“You know, Lexa” she says. “If you’re going to be so cocky, maybe I won’t wear these anymore,” and she holds up the fur bralette she had worn.

“That would be a shame,” Lexa says far too cooly.

She reaches out then, pokes Lexa lightly on the upper chest and she can’t help but to giggle just a bit as Lexa’s hand snakes out under the covers and runs across her ribs.

“It must have been a mighty battle you fought,” Lexa says after a moment. “To fell such a beast,” and Lexa lets her hand snake out from under the covers and run through the fur Clarke let lay on the bed between them.

“It was an interesting fight,” Clarke says, and she thinks over just how close she came to drowning. “I ended up in water,” she says, and she sees Lexa’s eyebrow raise slightly, and she knows she can spy just the slightest sign of worry. “Your swimming lessons paid off,” Clarke adds as she shuffles closer on her side.

“I am happy to hear that, Clarke,” Lexa says.

“Me too,” Clarke says, and she reaches out with her hand until she finds Lexa’s, their fingers quick to intertwine under the covers of her bed.

But Clarke knows the lightness of the conversation has ended when Lexa looks over her shoulder and eyes the sunlight that streams in from outside.

“We have kept the ambassadors waiting for too long,” Lexa says, her tone just slightly apologetic.

“I know,” and Clarke can’t help but to sigh, a reluctance to leave the bed and her quarters heavy on her mind.

“You have a prisoner,” Lexa continues as she squeezes her hand just once before releasing it and sitting up, the furs happy to pool around her waist as she stretches.

“I do,” Clarke says.

“Is she to do with Roan’s suspicions?”

“Yes,” and Clarke rises from her bed, stands in the cool, and she doesn’t miss the way Lexa takes an unashamed look at her from the other side of the bed. “She attacked us.”

Lexa’s eyes narrow at that, the anger Clarke sees in her eyes a stark contrast to just how naked the woman is. But Lexa shakes her darkening thoughts as she stands and begins to dress herself, hands quick and sure in motion.

“I discovered things, too,” Lexa says. “Tech is missing in our store room,” and Clarke sighs, if only because she anticipates her troubles to only increase with her return to Polis. “We discovered people in the forest,” Lexa adds. “They were toying with tech, trying to use it.”

“But?”

“They did not know how to do so safely,” Lexa says. “It exploded and killed them,” and Clarke can’t help but to scowl at that, if only because she knows tech falling into the wrong hands, especially those that don’t know how to use it properly, could be dangerous. “I believe someone escaped, but was injured,” she adds.

“Do you know who?”

“No,” Lexa says as she finishes wrapping her chest, a knife quick to be slid into place between the folds of her chest binding. “I have handmaidens investigating as we speak.”

“That’s good,” and Clarke lets the weight of her furs settle upon her shoulders as she runs a hand over her hair, the motions of herself dressing second nature, unthought and unconscious after the years.

“Yes,” Lexa says as she shrugs on her coat.

“You want to speak to my prisoner?” Clarke asks as she slips her knife back into place on her hip. “Maybe she’ll talk when she’s faced with the mighty Heda.”

“Perhaps,” Lexa says, and Clarke sees a little mirth in her eyes. “But I am sure Wanheda, Champion of Azgeda is much more frightening,” Lexa finishes as she tucks the last of her hidden blades into place.

“Then I guess we should both ask her questions,” Clarke says as she moves around her bed to stand in front of Lexa, and just for a moment she curses the fact that Lexa stands just a sight bit taller than her.

“That would be wise.”


	13. Chapter 13

Clarke walks the halls of Polis tower. The sun seems to be starting its downward journey through the sky and she thinks the way the stone glimmers a golden colour charming. Lexa walks beside her, and as both women pass Polis guard and tower servant, they fall into the comfortable pattern of nodding a head in acknowledgement, and smiling at those they recognise.

“How have things been?” Clarke asks.

“The ambassadors do little different,” Lexa answers, and Clarke finds herself smiling despite the headache she knows will return come their next clan meeting.

“To be honest,” Clarke continues. “I thought they might get less annoying with me gone.”

Lexa seems to smile just a little at that, but Clarke sees the expression turn to frown as they turn a corner, “some made more demands of Azgeda with your absence.”

Clarke scoffs, barks out a laugh and she thinks it to be expected, “who?” she asks. “They’re too afraid to say it directly to my face.”

“They fell in line,” Lexa says.

“They did, did they?”

“Yes, Clarke.”

“Did you have to threaten them?”

“Perhaps.”

“Cool,” Clarke says. “What do you think, Torvun?” she asks over her shoulder. “Do you think we should give them a little visit, make them think twice about taking advantage of my absence?”

“Perhaps, Clarke,” Torvun answers from somewhere behind her. “You have not demonstrated your skills with a knife for quite some time.”

 

* * *

 

Teben sits crosslegged on the stone floor. A single rough fur the only thing to help fight the cold of the dungeons. Clarke wonders if the woman regrets the choices she made in life that led her to where she now is. Just for a moment Clarke feels a stab of pity before she pushes it away and takes a step forward.

“Teben,” Clarke says.

“Clarke,” Teben answers as she peers past her and to Lexa who remains in the shadows.

“How’s your arm?” Clarke asks, and she eyes the bandage that seems fresh, less stained with blood.

“Sore,” Teben says as she raises it for a moment only to have it drop back to her side. “It itches.”

“That’s good,” Clarke says. “It means it’s beginning to heal.”

“Yes,” and Teben looks away, seems to focus her gaze somewhere on the wall where stone and crack and water meet in a constant drip.

“I heard something that might interest you,” Clarke says, and she pauses for long enough that the words sink in and that Teben turns to face her again. “We found some of your friends in the forests,” and she gestures outwards. “They were experimenting with tech but it went wrong. There was an accident and they died.”

Clarke sees Teben’s eyes narrow a fraction, she sees the suspicion and the barest hints of anger flare in her eyes and across her pale skin.

“You think I’m lying, don’t you?” Clarke asks.

Instead of answering, Teben turns her face and looks to the dungeon wall, and Clarke finds herself trying to gauge just how much Teben knows, whether she is a pawn, someone infatuated with an ideal, or whether she knows more, has known more from the very start. Clarke thinks Teben smart though, and so she sighs, steps closer and comes to crouch down before the woman.

“Look,” she begins. “I’ve kept my word since the very start,” and Clarke feels the smallest of victories as Teben looks back to her. “I’ve treated you as well as can be expected given the situation,” and she pauses as she thinks of how best to say her next words. “But I didn’t lie to you about the consequences, Teben,” she continues. “It’s up to you to decide how this plays out.”

“How many?” Teben says.

“How many?”

“How many were killed?”

“Nine,” Lexa’s voice cuts in, and Clarke senses her step closer and come to stand behind her. “Someone escaped,” Lexa adds, and Clarke sees Teben’s eyes flash something she can’t quite place. “They are injured,” Lexa says.

“Teben,” and Clarke pulls the woman’s attention back to her. “So far none of your friends have done anything that is too serious,” Clarke tries to let her voice become as gentle as possible. “I know you don’t like tech, but it’s helped you. It’s helped the Coalition,” she says. “If you friends are experimenting with explosives, if they don’t know what they’re playing with, then more people are going to be hurt, more people could die.”

Teben breaks eye contact again.

“So far they haven’t hurt anyone else,” Clarke pushes. “If you help us, if you tell us what you know, then no one,” and Clarke reaches out and puts a hand on the woman’s knee. “Needs to be hurt further.”

Clarke watches as Teben bites her lip, seems to chew on it for a long moment before looking past her and to Lexa who Clarke is sure must be staring unwaveringly at the woman.

“Where did they die?” Teben says eventually.

“West,” Lexa says. “Past the bend in river Tarno.”

Teben seems to think for another moment before she must make her mind up for she blinks a few times in the dark of the dungeons before meeting Clarke’s inquisitive stare.

“There are more,” Teben says. “We have camps throughout the forests.”

“Why?” Clarke asks.

“So we can learn tech away from others.”

“Why?”

“We do not want to hurt people,” Teben says, and Clarke is sure she sees the woman accept the fact that she is to reveal more than she had ever planned to do. “But we do not trust tech. We think it only causes violence and destruction.”

“So, what?” Clarke asks. “You steal it?”

“Yes.”

“What are you planning to do with the stolen tech?” Clarke asks.

“I do not know,” Teben answers, and Clarke thinks she tells the truth.

“Who leads you?”

“I do not know,” Teben repeats quietly, her head hung low.

“Where’s the closest camp to Polis?” Clarke continues.

But Teben seems to second guess what she is about to say for she looks back up to them, and Clarke is sure Lexa’s presence must be daunting, must be having an effect on the woman.

“In the forests,” Teben says, this time to Lexa. “Do you know the caves near the lakes to the north?’

“Yes,” Lexa answers.

And with that Teben seems to deflate just a little more than before, and Clarke is sure she sees a guilt take hold of the woman’s thoughts.

“You’re going to help us stop this getting worse, Teben,” Clarke says as she comes to stand. “I hope you realise that,” and Clarke watches as Teben looks up again, but this time her gaze seems a little less sure and steady.

“What will you do to them?”

“That’s up to them,” Clarke says as simply as she can, and she tries to keep emotion out of her voice.

 

* * *

 

To the side of Lexa’s throne room and through a heavy set of doors lies a small chamber. But perhaps small is quite the best description if only because it’s interior isn’t much smaller than Lexa’s war tent, and that, Clarke thinks, is anything but small. In comparison to her throne room, though, perhaps it is, just a little. A large war table dominates its centre, a map lies across it and candles and torches burn in scones upon the walls or upon small trays set about the room.

Anya stalks around the table slowly, the woman’s gaze directed down onto the map and the small model that marks where Teben had said the camp is. Lexa remains standing still, gaze careful as she takes in the surrounding landscapes, and as Clarke continues to watch Anya, she can’t help but to think the woman keen for a fight, for something more to do than the peace that has settled since Nia’s fall.

“You trust her?” Anya asks, and Clarke isn’t sure whether she speaks to her or to Lexa.

“Yes,” Clarke says anyway, and she feels Lexa’s gaze move to her briefly before back down to the map.

“And your plan?” Anya continues. “You are not going to let them continue making camps and stealing tech.”

“No,” Lexa says. “The prisoner says she does not wish to harm others.”

“But?” Anya asks.

“She may not speak for everyone she is allied with.”

“They’re playing with explosives,” Clarke says, and she sees Anya’s eyes narrow a fraction. “From what you’ve told me,” and Clarke wonders how they got hold of such tech. “I don’t even know how they got hold of them, maybe they were really just experimenting with it, and things got out of hand.”

“I can not allow people who are not capable of understanding tech continue to experiment with it,” Lexa says.

“No,” Clarke nods. “I didn’t think you’d want that, either.”

“So?” Anya asks. “I will take warriors,” and Anya jerks her chin towards Costia who remains offside, and standing by the closest wall, the woman’s habit of standing in the shadows not lost on Clarke. “We will confront.”

“No,” Lexa says quickly, and Clarke watches as Anya’s head tilts in confusion for a moment.

“No?” she asks, and Clarke looks to Gustus who remains by the door, the man’s own eyes somewhat curious as to what Lexa must be thinking.

“There is someone in Polis,” Lexa says. “Who is wounded. Who must be watching us,” and she pauses, looks around to Clarke, to Anya, Costia, even Gustus and Torvun. “If you pull your warriors from Polis, Anya,” she continues. “Then word can spread. Then whoever watches us may warn all those nearby.”

Clarke smiles then, for she thinks she knows where Lexa goes.

“I have warriors camped outside Polis,” Clarke says, and she knows she has guessed correctly when Lexa smiles subtly before nodding for her to continue. “They won’t be watched, so their movements won’t be noticed,” Clarke says. “We’ll have a better chance of slipping through the forest and sneaking up on them than your warriors, Anya,” Clarke says as she turns to the older woman. “I’ll keep my warriors already in Polis here, I’ll even have them begin to move through the Polis streets, make their presence in the city even more obvious.”

Anya seems to think over what she says for a long moment, but Clarke knows Anya cunning, smart, ruthless and practical, at least when it comes to violence, so she thinks it not likely that Anya will disagree with what she has said.

“It is sound,” Anya says after another moment.

“So what’s the plan, Lexa?” Clarke asks as she smiles at Anya before facing Lexa once more.

Lexa takes a moment to take in the map once more, and Clarke can’t help but to admire the way the flame light seems to dance across her face as she leans forward before looking up at everyone who stands near and far.

“Confront them, subdue them however you must, destroy their camp and bring back any tech you find.”

“That easy, huh?” Clarke asks, and she doesn’t care that Anya’s eyes roll.

“I have faith in your abilities, Clarke,” Lexa says in response, but Clarke thinks it comes out all too serious.

 

* * *

 

Ilian’s hip hasn’t stopped hurting him since the explosion, but the paste he applies every morning seems to have turned the burning pain into a dulled ache. As he continues to wind his way through the markets, his time free during the middle of the day, his thoughts turn to the others who still remain in the forests. He is sure they would have heard the explosion, or at least those who are closer, and he is equally sure they will have become more cautious with the tech they experiment with.

He pushes that little worry into the depths of his mind then, and he does for he knows he can’t control how the others go about that task, especially now when the Commander has seen some of what they have done. And though he thinks the streets of Polis not yet full of warriors on guard, he is sure that some are on watch, that some search for him still, as they must be searching for any signs of tech being misused or stolen.

Ilian hasn’t come this far in life though, he hasn’t survived the Mountain’s reign and Nia of Azgeda’s cruelty and want to throw the Coalition back into chaos to simply be caught off guard, to act without plan, without caution, so he doesn’t worry himself with those things out of his control. And he knows he must simply take things one step at a time.

And so Ilian turns his mind to Teben who is locked in the dungeons, who he saw was wounded and under guard by Azgeda warriors, at least that one time.

Ilian comes to a stop before a small building, just one of many that line the street. Its walls battered metal and wood and stone, ornate carvings etched where they can be etched, decorations and painted patterns upon surfaces un-etchable.

He knocks twice, his fist quick to clip against the beaten wood of the door. As he waits for an answer, Ilian keeps his gaze settled before him for he knows looking up and down the street in search of being watch would be too obvious for anyone who actually did watch.

He hears the approach of feet then.

“Who is it?” he hears called out from behind the door as the feet come to a stop.

“Ilian,” he answers.

The door opens to reveal a small home, its interior decorated with carvings of stone that depicts animals, mountains, landscapes that are native to a clan he hasn’t been to yet.

“Ilian,” the woman before him says, eyes quick to peer out behind him before stepping aside and inviting him in.

And so Ilian smiles warmly, steps inside, and lets his eyes adjust to the dim light before he turns to her with a sigh.

“We have a problem.”

 

* * *

 

The Mountain never quite seems to settle for Raven. Each time she visits she feels as though her skin crawls. She hasn’t quite figured out why though, perhaps it’s the fact that the old inhabitants had done such terrible things, perhaps it was simply because she was buried beneath so much stone that if it were to collapse her body would be turns to a mixture of pulp, liquid and pulverised bone, or perhaps it was simply the fact that the grounders used so many open fires to light their way that she couldn’t help but to think it nothing but a disaster waiting to happen.

“What?” she says as she hears a sigh from somewhere behind her.

“You’re thinking too hard, Raven,” Bellamy says as he grunts and shifts the tubing over his shoulder.

“And how do you know that?” she asks as she turns to face him, eyebrows raising in challenge.

“You’re grumbling to yourself,” he says.

“You’re the one who offered to help,” she counters and she turns back the way they walk into the deepest parts of the Mountain.

She smiles as they pass two warriors, both, she thinks, are Plains Riders, from the red of their flowing clothes. One of them, a woman who seems to be in her mid thirties has dots that run down from her bottom lip, with hair braided into thick dreadlocks that falls down past her shoulders, the other a man, slender with darker skin and a calm expression.

“Which clan’s the furthest?” Bellamy asks as they continue down the lone hallway.

“Don’t know,” Raven answers, but she takes a moment to think over what she knows. “Glowing forest? Maybe Plains Riders?”

“I think I want to go on a tour,” Bellamy sighs.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Wouldn’t you?” and they both come to a pause in front of heavy set doors that lead to the machines that circulate the air through the Mountain.

“I guess it’d be cool to see new things,” Raven says, and she does think so, if only because the forests and trees do sometimes get just a little tiring after the few long years they’ve spent on the ground.

“You miss it, don’t you,” and she thinks she hears less of a question and more of a statement in the way Bellamy’s voice filters into the quietness settling around them.

“Miss what?” she asks.

“Space,” and he jerks a thumb upwards. “Zero G.”

Raven smiles though, if only because she does miss it in some way. But, perhaps she can’t complain about the way her life has turned out. Not when she has the chance to wake up each day to breathe fresh air, and to feel the wind on her skin.

“Nah,” and she jerks her head towards the plumbing recessed into one corner of the dark room. “Come on.”

 

* * *

 

Azgeda warriors fill the tavern, candles burn on each table and the sounds of quiet music played by the band mix with conversation and laughter. The drink in Ontari’s hand is cool, chilled, cold enough to soothe the slight rise in temperature over the last few days.

Azgeda sector in Polis flies the banners of their clan, its image a hand with the piercing winds of the Azgeda plains in its palm, a symbol of Azgeda having tamed the often violent, often frozen wilds of their lands.

Warriors sit at the benches in the tavern, each one’s face scarred, some fresher than others, all with the whites and pale greys of their furs shining in the firelight.

Ontari grimaces just a little as an over eager and freshly scarred warrior sits down beside her, the man’s lips turned up into a wide smile, his face just a little red from the drink.

“Ontari,” he says with a smile, her name falling from his lips just a little sullied by the drink.

“What?” she asks, and she can’t help but to find it just a little annoying that Entani sits in front of her with a smirk in her eyes.

“I am Korga,” the man says as he downs half his mug.

“And I do not care,” she answers for she thinks she knows where this conversation goes.

Nonetheless, Ontari sees him ignore her response and simply smile a little more widely, “I travelled to your home village last winter,” he says, and she sees him glance over to another table not far from them, and she is sure the man’s friends must be watching.

“I am surprised someone as fresh faced as you is able to do that,” she says.

“Ronto is very beautiful,” Korga continues, and she feels him lean a little closer. “As are you.”

“And you have drunk too much,” she says as simply as she can, but she feels the slightest embers of annoyance beginning to return.

“You are a ferocious warrior,” he continues and Ontari sees Entani’s eyes roll from the corner of her vision. “You fought by Wanheda’s side during the Mountain’s fall,” he says. “You helped kill the last of the Mountain Men and you helped King Roan ascend the throne,” and she can’t help but to feel just a little flush of pleasure at the way he speaks of her triumphs. If only because she knows if someone else had done them she would feel a twisted sense of pleasure and thrill.

“I did all those things,” Ontari says and she lets her voice turn sweet, turn a little too high and eager and innocent as she downs the last of her drink and turns to face him. “Each one of those people annoyed me greatly,” and she lets her mug back down onto the table with a satisfying thump before wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Do you know what I did to those people who annoyed me?” she asks.

“No,” and Korga seems to think her talking as invitation for him to let his hand fall to her knee under the table.

“I took my knife,” she says as she draws it from her hip and lets the light catch its blade between them.

“And?” and she can’t help but to think Korga a fool. A youthful, fresh faced, and far too overconfident fool.

“And I cut off their manhood,” Ontari slams the knife down into the bench between Korga’s legs with a thump, Korga yelps in surprise, and Ontari lets her smile widen and her teeth glow in the light as she hears Entani guffaw.

“I would leave, Korga,” Entani says, and Ontari finds herself suppressing the laugh as Korga seems to come to his senses and rises before stumbling away to the sounds of his own friends laughing at his expense. “That was mean,” Entani says once Korga vanishes from their vision.

“He was annoying,” Ontari shrugs as she reaches for the beaker to pour herself another drink.

“He was fresh faced,” Entani laughs.

“Still annoying.”

Entani shrugs at that, chuckles to herself a little and brings the mug in her hands to her lips. Ontari can’t blame Korga though, she can’t even really blame all the others that seem to be enjoying the first real break they have had since their travels from the Capital, if only because it has seemed like they have been on the move constantly without much rest. Ontari also can’t blame them for feeling a little restless simply because hardly any have fought battle since the Mountain Men, when reapers would roam the forests and warriors would need to fight and be ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Maybe, as Ontari begins to think over that fact, as she begins to think over her own restlessness, she thi—

The tavern doors open, the light streams in from outside and Ontari sees Entani squint as sunlight falls across her face before the doors close again. But Ontari sees Entani’s eyes narrow a fraction, and she hears feet approaching her from behind and so she turns, peers over her shoulder and she finds Bronat walking her way, a slight layer of sweat clinging to his body and his chest rising a little to whatever exertion he has run.

“Ontari, Entani,” Bronat says, his usual easygoing demeanour replaced by a seriousness Ontari knows means only one thing.

“Bronat,” she says in greeting, and she sees him nod past her and to Entani.

“Clarke calls for you,” he says and he jerks his head towards the door. “We are needed.”

And Ontari knows what that means, she knows what Clarke must want, what she must have discovered. And so Ontari feels a flush beginning to fill her body, she feels an excitement, an eagerness and a perverse kind of twisted pleasure that takes hold of her senses.

Maybe later she will worry about just how _excited_ she gets at the prospect of a soon to be real fight.


	14. Chapter 14

Ilian blinks away the sunlight as he steps deeper into the building.

“What is this problem?” Helia asks

“Do you remember Teben?” and he turns to look inside the home, to the decorations upon the walls and to the table that sits in the centre.

“Yes,” Helia says.

“She is prisoner,”and Ilian winces as he takes a too energetic step towards the table.

“She was caught?” Helia asks. “How?”

“I do not know,” Ilian says as he comes to a chair, falls into it and grimaces as the pain ebbs. “All that matters is that she is prisoner.”

“Has she spoken?”

“No, I do not think so,” he doesn’t. Ilian is sure she hasn’t for he wouldn’t be able to have this conversation if Teben had spoken.

“Then we do not need to worry, yet,” Helia says as she eyes the way he sits awkwardly.

“Perhaps,” Ilian says, but he doesn’t want to leave it to chance. “I must get to her,” he continues. “Make sure she is not being tortured for information.”

“What if she has already spoken?” Helia asks. “And Heda is simply waiting for us to make a move?”

“And what move would that be, Helia?” Ilian challenges. “We have no quarrel with Heda, we have no quarrel with the clans,” and he shakes his head.

“They will not understand, ” Helia says with a flare of annoyance and Ilian can’t blame her for feeling annoyed, for feeling frustrated at whatever is to come.

“Nothing has gone the way we wished,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“There were risks when we agreed to do this,” Helia says gently, and Ilian can’t help but to flinch away as she comes to stand before him, one hip leant against the table’s edge as her arms cross. “You knew that. Teben knows that,” and Helia pauses for only a moment longer. “Hepoli knew that.”

“Do not speak her name,” and Ilian grits his teeth, but from anger or hurt he can’t quite tell.

Helia scoffs, but he doesn’t think the sound is meant to cause offence or to dismiss Hepoli’s death.

“We all understand the dangers of tech,” Helia says. “You more now than before,” and Ilian can’t help but to look away. “We need to be careful, Ilian,” she continues. “If we are to show the rest of the clans how dangerous tech can be, then we must do it without more setbacks.”

“I know,” he snaps at her, the days of masking the pain of his hip during his time in Polis tower taking a toll on him.

Helia sighsheavily then, and Ilian finds her looking out a crack in her window and at the people that walk by.

“Azgeda move through the city more these days,” and Helia’s voice seems a little tight, a little resentful.

“Wanheda is Azgeda,” Ilian says with a shrug. “Azgeda do as she says. And she does as she pleases.”

“You are content with Azgeda making such a stake on the city?” Helia asks. “They already have more warriors at the Mountain than most other clans. Even in the forests near Arkadia.”

“They fought for that right,” Ilian says as he pushes himself to his feet.

“You can not be serious,” Ilian doesn’t think Helia’s voice sounds angry or shocked, but perhaps curious.

“There is a shifting of power, Helia,” Ilian says. “We all felt it. We saw the first moves in this new world,” he pauses. “Nia almost threw the clans into chaos over tech. And now Azgeda seeks to distance themselves from her isolationism,” and Ilian wonders what the world could have been like is Nia had succeeded, if she had managed to take control of Skaikru, of Arkadia and the Mountain and all the tech they controlled. “Azgeda’s forces have been integrating with the clans, Helia,” he says. “There is less chance of them ever fighting against the coalition again.”

Helia barks out a sharp laugh then, and Ilian is sure he knows what she will say.

“Is it Roan’s doing?” Helia says rhetorically. “Or is it simply because Heda and Wanheda share a bed? What happens when they break? If they fall apart and we are caught in the mess it will cause?”

“Does it matter how this change has come about?” Ilian asks. “Or is it simply important that it has?”

Helia falls quiet then, but only for a moment before pushing off from the tables edge and rolling her shoulders.

“You will need a distraction to get to Teben,” Helia says. “And you will need a distraction to get out of the city. They will hunt you.”

“Yes,” Ilian answers as he begins to move to the door. “I have a clan meeting soon,” he says. “Get me what I need. I will do the rest.”

 

* * *

 

Lexa sits atop her throne, her gaze moving from ambassador to ambassador before her. Some, she finds, eye her with a guarded curiosity, some with more open hostility, while those from more friendly clans seem intrigued. And they do for she knows she will be asked about Azgeda’s seemingly increased presence in the city, with their warriors moving more freely outside of Azgeda sector than usual.

And to that, Lexa knows her answer.

“Azgeda move more openly through Polis,” someone begins, and from their tone Lexa knows them to be friendlier than hostile.

“They do,” Lexa answers with a simple shrug of her shoulder, and she feels Titus begin to eye her cautiously from where he stands by her side. “Is that not allowed?” and Lexa raises an eyebrow at know one in particular.

“No, Heda,” and Lexa turns to see Kahlan leaning forward in her chair. “Merely an observati—”

“Where is Azgeda’s ambassador?” and Lexa feels the twitching in her lip as she eyes Elios who interrupts, one hand gesturing to Clarke’s empty chair.

“She is seeing to matters of trade between Azgeda and the Mountain,” Lexa says simply.

From the way Elios narrows his eyes, Lexa is sure he doesn’t quite believe her, but she knows she can’t do much more, can’t even dare to deflect more than she has lest she give away what and where Clarke truly has gone, if only because she feels she must be overly cautious in an attempt to give whoever it must be that survived the explosion false hope that their pursuit has lessened.

“The Mountain, Heda,” an ambassador says, and Lexa’s gaze falls to the Blue Cliffs ambassador who clears his throat.

“What of the Mountain?”

“Azgeda number many in the Mountain and the surrounding forests,” he begins, and Lexa sees him wet his lips for a moment, the motion perhaps a little nervous.

“Yes,” Lexa begins. “Is there an issue?”

“No, Heda,” he adds. “However Azgeda also have many warriors in Polis now— almost their maximum amount allowed.”

And Lexa thinks she knows where this goes.

“You think Azgeda number too many outside their borders?” and Lexa lets her voice harden just enough to know the topic is sensitive.

“Some do, Heda,” the ambassador says, and Lexa watches as he looks away for the briefest of moments.

“What Tahgo means to say—” Elios cuts in quickly, and Lexa can’t help but to feel just a little sorry for the youngest of clan ambassadors. “Is that his clan does not appreciate Azgeda numbering so many outside their borders.”

But Tahgo seems to stiffen at that, glare at Elios and then straighten in his chair and harden his features.

“Blue Cliffs does not think there are too many Azgeda outside their borders,” Tahgo snarls back, and Lexa watches as Elios inclines his head slightly, the motion more sarcastic than deferential. “I was merely asking if there was a reason.”

“Quiet, Elios,” Lexa says, and she finds herself wishing she could kick Elios down at least one flight of stairs just once. “Speak, Tahgo.”

“There are some clans,” and Tahgo looks pointedly to Elios and to the Lake Clan ambassador. “Who do not appreciate Azgeda’s role in defeating the Mountain and ensuring the last of the Mountain Men were hunted,” Tahgo pauses for a second to collect his thoughts. “Blue Cliffs is not one of those clans. I ask simply because the last time Azgeda was so numerous we were in conflict.”

“And you worry that another conflict is upon us?” Lexa questions, and as she lets her question hang in the silence she finds herself eyeing each ambassador before her, some seemingly growing more interested, others becoming more guarded.

“Not worry,” Tahgo says. “But I am curious.”

“You need not fear,” Lexa says. “Azgeda is merely in the process of rotating their warriors out,” and she sees a few ambassadors nod. “Things will die down soon,” and as Lexa continues to eye Tahgo, she finds herself recalling all that has happened with Blue Cliffs since the Mountain’s fall. “How go the cliff side crops?” Lexa asks, but she knows the answer already.

“Well, Heda,” Tahgo says with a more free smile. “Skaikru tech has helped greatly.”

“That is good to hear,” and perhaps it is a little premature, but Lexa mentally crosses off any person in Tahgo’s retinue as the sole survivor of the explosion in the forest.

A throat being cleared pulls her attention away from Tahgo then, and as Lexa settles on the Lake clan ambassador. And the expression she finds makes her lips twitch up into the slightest of snarls, if only because she knows Jetta is a woman as annoying as she is blunt.

“So, Heda,” Jetta begins. “You would not disprove of Lake clan warriors filling Polis streets?” and Lexa sees Tahgo glare at Jetta from the corner of her eye. “Or our warriors begin to make camp around the Mountain? Just as Azgeda do?”

“It would be no issue if they did not exceed city limits or had reason for their presence in the forests,” Lexa says, and she knows Jetta to be confrontational, too quick to seek the betterment of her clan over others. And though Lexa doesn’t blame Jetta for doing so, it aggravates her that the woman’s clan does little to back up whatever they say.

“I see,” Jetta says.

“Now,” and Lexa turns her attention to the other ambassadors who have watched the conversation in silence. “To discus the matter brought up yesterday.”

And so conversation begins to flow once more, with subtle insult thrown from ambassador to ambassador, and through it all, Lexa can’t help but to wonder and to wish she had also been able to follow Clarke in her investigation of the camp.

 

* * *

 

It’s a bit odd, Clarke thinks, to be stalking the forests again. It isn’t that sh hasn’t done so in the weeks and months since Nia’s fall. But all those times she had been stalking animal, prey to feed her, to provide pelts for the villages, to ensure her people would survive just a little longer on the ground.

But now? As she stalks person and not animal?

She isn’t sure if she missed it, or if she regretted ever needing to do so in the first place.

Clarke comes to a pause by a large tree as the sounds of water lapping again stone and shoreline ripple out around her. Azgeda warriors huddle close by her, their number just over half of what had left Arkadia with her. She isn’t willing to take any risks with finding out what these people plan to do with tech. The furs they wear are dulled, more muted than the bright whites they would wear when wanting to be seen, at least for this instance.

“Clarke,” Ontari whispers into her ear as she comes to crouch beside her. “The scouts returned. They found the caves, it looks like there are people in them.”

“Good,” and Clarke looks over her shoulder to Jenma and Leeton who already begin preparing arrows for easier reach as Bronat slinks from warrior to warrior, lips pressed to ears as he reports what the scouts found.

“What do we do, Clarke?” Entani asks, and Clarke feels the other healer nestle into the shadow behind her, the spear she holds somehow finding space to settle between them both despite how large it is.

Clarke doesn’t know if they can reveal themselves without being attacked, but she thinks it unlikely considering Teben and her friends had attacked them as soon as they were discovered.

“We’re going to attack them,” Clarke says as she turns from the lake and to the warriors behind her. “If you can, capture any alive, but don’t risk your lives. If you need to, then you can kill.”

Those with her nod their understanding, some even seem to relish in the challenge they are now faced with of incapacitating a foe who would rather die than surrender.

“Clarke,” Bronat says quietly as he slinks up beside her. “There are other entrances to the caves,” he gestures to one of the scouts, a woman whose lithe body is halfway perched up a tree, eyes turned out across the lake and to the caves in the distance. “They found them as they circled back.

Clarke pauses for a moment to think, but only enough to make sure she considers the numbers before she turns to the scout.

“Dahna,” she says. “Keep your scouts spread out around the lake, we’ll signal you if we need help, but if anyone tries to get away it’s on you to stop them,” and she sees Dahna nod her understanding as she slides back down the tree quietly. “Bronat, take ten, go to the other entrances and attack from there, but only after you hear us attack first. I want you to surprise them.”

Bronat nods his understanding before winking at Jenma who simply returns the wink with a rolling of her eyes.

“Remember,” and Clarke turns to face the warriors with her once more. “We’re here to stop them from experimenting with tech. To find out what they’re doing. To capture or kill them. But don’t be stupid. Stay alert and protect your back.”

 

* * *

 

Lexa takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment longer than is comfortable then releases it in one long steady exhale. She can’t say that the ambassador meeting went well, but she also can’t say it went poorly. At least any complaints about Clarke’s absence, or Azgeda’s increased presence in the streets was left at her explanation. But she knows that won’t placate the ambassadors for long.

Titus clears his throat then, and as Lexa opens her eyes to find him eyeing her, hands held together through the sleeves of his long robe.

“Heda,” he begins, and Lexa finds him turning his attention to Anya who moves a little closer perhaps in warning, perhaps to better hear what it is that will be said. “I have concerns,” he says.

“About?” Lexa leans forward over the table as she looks around her private study attached to the throne room.

“Azgeda,” he says, head inclining.

Though Titus can be annoying, though he can be abrupt, Lexa finds that she appreciates it, if only because she can rely on him to not mince words or tread so lightly upon topics that his warnings are not understood.

“Guards,” Lexa says and she looks to the two Polis Guards who stand at the room’s entrance. “You may leave.”

And so both guards bow their heads, acknowledge Gustus, Anya and Costia who both stand aside, and then step out of the room.

Titus waits until the doors close before coming to stand beside her, his brow furrowing just a little.

“There are worries about Azgeda,” he begins, and Lexa inclines her head to signal for him to continue. “They are not serious enough yet for more ambassadors to raise their complaints,” Titus says. “But they worry.”

“About?” Lexa asks, and she looks to Anya who stares down at the map atop the table, eyes taking the drawing of Polis, of the clan sectors and the surrounding forests.

“There are whispers that you favour Azgeda over the other clans. That you will ignore their wishes to satisfy Azgeda.”

“And who has these complaints?” Lexa asks.

“Most clans, Heda,” Titus says.

“What think you, Anya?” Lexa says, and she looks up to meet the older woman’s gaze to find her arms now crossed, jaw clenched and eyes darting left and right as she thinks over the question.

“It is true,” Anya says with a shrug. “That Azgeda is taking a more prominent place within the Coalition.”

“Yet?” Lexa asks, and she can’t help but to look to Costia who, at times like this, always seems to turn inwards, and perhaps Lexa will talk to her, will try to see if there is more that can be done for the woman she cares greatly for— other than giving her space and time.

“Some clans understand that Azgeda is different under Roan’s guidance and the forces under Clarke’s control are not the same as the Azgeda forces that had swept across the border before the Coalition.”

“But there are those that only see the fact that Azgeda warriors patrol the forests, that they have a strong presence at the Mountain,” Lexa finishes.

“Yes,” Anya says.

And that doesn’t surprise Lexa, not at all. But perhaps she had wished and hoped that instead of wariness, the clans would have seen Azgeda’s presence by _her_ invitation as a sign that Azgeda was different, that they should be trusted as a core member of the coalition now. And yet, perhaps for only the briefest of moments, it saddened her that it had not quite played out the way she had hoped.

“I expected this to happen,” Lexa says, and she did.

“Then why?” Titus asks, and Lexa knows he asks not to undermine, but to ensure she has considered all possibilities.

“Azgeda’s place in the coalition, their standing amongst the clans was shaken after Nia’s actions,” Lexa begins. “It was important that the clans believed in the clan’s stability. In their place amongst the Coalition. If that belief wavered then clans would have demanded retribution for Nia’s actions.”

“It would have caused war, not if. But when,” and Lexa looks up to find Gustus nodding his head in agreement, the words he had just said easy enough for all those present to grasp.

“Yes, Gustus,” she says.

“The clans annoy me,” Anya snorts.

“Yes,” Lexa says as tactfully as she can, the slight twitching in Gustus’ lips the only sign he lets free whilst Titus’ brow furrows even further.

“I assume Azgeda’s increased presence in the streets of Polis is your doing, Heda?” he asks.

“Yes,” Lexa says, and she wonders how much Titus knows of her and Clarke’s suspicions of tech being stolen and used in some way.

“And it is to do with the Prisoner Clarke brought with her,” Titus adds.

“Yes,” Lexa answers.

And from the way Titus raises an eyebrow, from the way his lips purse in thought, Lexa is sure he knows almost as much as she does.

“You have handmaidens in the storeroom,” he continues.

“I do,” Lexa says.

Titus sighs heavily, and if at all possible, Lexa thinks she sees the stress behind his eyes grow heavier as thoughts coalesce and solidify.

“I will attempt to dull the ambassadors’ worry of Azgeda,” and Titus looks down to the map of Polis. “Some will only need simple reassurances, others will need more time and proof that Azgeda is not being given preferential treatment.”

“Things will be explained in time,” Lexa says.

And with that Titus bows his head, seems to accept her word and turn for the door.

Lexa waits until he leaves before relaxing ever so slightly, the day’s ambassador meeting having left her restless and eager for action.

“You do not like sitting still while Clarke is out there,” Anya says simply, and Lexa can’t help but to avoid Anya’s gaze, if only because she remembers what it felt like as a child, a young second, to be questioned much the same about Costia.

“Clarke is capable of returning unharmed.”

“I see,” Anya nods to herself before uncrossing her arms, one hand instinctively coming to rest atop the knife on her hip. But Anya seems to think her time trapped inside has come to an end for she shakes her head and begins to move for the door. “Come, Costia,” and Anya jerks her chin outwards. “I am sure there are seconds I must yell at.”

But as Costia smiles awkwardly at Lexa before turning to leave, Lexa finds a thought wriggling in the back of her mind and so, “Costia,” and she watches as the other woman pauses. “Please wait.”

And so Anya spares one curious glance over her shoulder before she ducks out of the room. Gustus remains, and though she knows he would never disclose what he hears, she can’t help but to think it a little too awkward, but he must sense it too for he clears his throat before bowing his head long enough for her to tell him to remain should she wish.

Lexa waits until he, too, slips from the room before she turns her attention to Costia who stands an awkward distance from the door and the table.

“Costia,” Lexa begins, and for some reason she thinks her mouth a little more dry than it was moments before.

“Lexa,” Costia says.

And perhaps for the first time in a long while, Lexa allows herself to take in the woman she had once loved terribly. And she can’t help but to eye the scar that cuts through her cheek and into her lip, she can’t help but to eye the slightest of twitching in Costia’s fingers, or even the way her hair is braided so that it masks the scar etched into her scalp.

“You are well?” Lexa asks.

“Yes,” Costia says with a shrug as she decides to move closer to the table until she can rest her hip against its edge. “And you?”

“I am well,” Lexa says.

But Lexa finds herself remembering all the times Costia has been present during clan and ambassador meetings, to even the times when she has discussed things privately with those she trusts the most. And through it all she remembers how Costia always stays near the shadows, always seem not to linger too long in the light.

“I—” she doesn’t know how to broach the topic. And that fact saddens her, for she remembers the times when she never even considering not asking Costia anything, she remembers never worrying about how her words might be construed, or how Costia would react. And that fact makes her blood boil, makes her remember the heartache and the rage and hate she had felt towards Nia.

“Speak,” Costia says gently. “I know you well enough to know when you wish to say something.”

“Are—” Lexa stops for a moment, wonders how to ask. But perhaps she knows she need not ask it in any other way than to simply say, “are you ok?” she knows Costia will understand.

Costia smiles, and perhaps the motion comes a little sad, comes a little forlorn, or perhaps that is simply Lexa’s memory, Lexa’s imagination, for as Lexa looks longer, she thinks the smile alive, vibrant, perhaps a little scarred, but nonetheless, full of life.

“I am well,” and she knows Costia means it. But Costia continues, “you wish to know why I do not speak more than I do in meetings such as this?” Lexa nods. “You wish to know why I stand in the shadows?” she nods yet again. And so Costia’s smile turns a little sadder, that Lexa is sure. “It is a hard habit to break, Lexa,” Costia says as simply as she can. “It is hard to forget that once I would have been punished for being noticed, it is hard to forget that once my silence was the only act of defiance I had left.”

And perhaps Lexa finds herself unsure of what to say, what to do in the moment. But she knows Costia to be strong, the simply fact that she stands before her sign enough.

“And Ontari?” Lexa asks instead of pushing the subject further, in part because it still hurts her to picture the pain Costia went through, and in part because she doesn’t enjoy the way Costia’s eyes have darkened.

“Things are well,” Costia says with a shrug, but this time, Lexa thinks the motion less burdened and more carefree.

“I am happy for you,” Lexa says and she thinks that is all that is needed to be said, all that is needed to be voiced for Costia to know she is cared for, not like she once was, for that, Lexa knows, can not return, but in a different way that is no less than it once was.

“And I am happy for you, too, Lexa,” Costia says with a small smile. “I should go,” and she gestures for the door. “Someone will need to stop Anya from scaring the seconds.”

 

* * *

 

Of all the ways Clarke thought the raid could have gone, this was not one of them. Clarke runs fast, so fast that she is sure she must have set some kind of sprinting record. The cave shakes, rock trembles and crumbles and roars around her. Azgeda warriors run with her, some faster, some only just slower, but each one runs towards the only bit of light they can see at the end of the cave’s entrance in the near distance.

And it had been too easy, too simple. They had crept into the caves to find no one near the entrances. They had stalked through the near perfect dark, each person waiting for someone to jump out at them, for someone to attack from the shadows.

And so, when they had come to what was sure to be the campsite deep into the caves, Clarke’s senses had begun to spin, had begun to realise things were not as they seemed. Tech lay scattered about, all clearly broken, all clearly destroyed in haste. She couldn’t even quite recognise most of what was destroyed except for canisters she thought oddly familiar, or even parts of radios for she would recognise the antenna and mesh of the mouthpiece anywhere.

And she had known it was a trap. And her suspicions were proved when the explosion had rumbled through the rock of the cave.

And so she runs.

Rock and cave wall crumbled behind them, it sprays sharp stone shards in every direction, bits quick to cut into her back, into her arms. Dust stings her eyes, threatens to make her stumble, loose her footing.

A woman yells out in pain as a rock must pierce her leg somewhere for she stumbles, trips, crashes to the ground, but someone from behind somehow, someway rolls onto her, seems to grasp her mid motion and heft her onto his shoulders before continue to run as wildly forward as he can.

And Clarke will worry about who may have been trapped, who may have been crushed as soon as she is free of the caves.

Fear spikes as the dust seems to cloud her vision, as the open air seems to close around her, seem to suffocate, seem to deaden the breaths she can take.

But she runs, she pushes her legs faster and faster and faster. And she can taste it, she can taste the fresh air, the dust and the soot and the sand kicked up by the explosion and the crumbling rock around her.

She hears someone yell for them to move faster, she hears the desperation, the fear, even the anger in their voice. And for a moment Clarke can’t help but to think this is how her life will end, she can’t help but to wonder if of all the ways she will die, it will be her being crushed by stone, body pulverised and never to be found by anyone under layers and layers of rock.

But just as she thinks all hope is lost, just as she feels the ground beneath her feet beginning to tremble, she breaks free from the caves. She bursts out into the open air with an explosion of dust as the last of the rock crumbles behind her.

Before her lie the rest of the Azgeda warriors who had entered the caves, some lie on their backs, chests rising, some with smiles borne of adrenaline and the closeness of death, some with a dazed expression as soot and dirt covered faces stare up into the blue of the sky, and others cradle injuries from rock having struck them, or of ankles twisted in the scramble to get free.

Clarke counts quickly, she catalogues each face she sees to ensure none were lost, and not until she lands on thirty-four that had entered the caves with her does she let out a relieved sigh.

“It was a trap,” Torvun says, his words simple, annoyed and frustrated.

“Yeah,” Clarke says as she begins walking to the river’s edge. “It was.”

“Teben lied to us,” Entani grimaces from where she kneels at the lake’s edge, hands cupping water as she splashes it onto her dust covered face.

“I am going to kill her,” Ontari grunts out as she rises to her feet, hands in the midst of patting out the dirt from her furs.

“Yeah,” and Clarke can’t blame anyone for feeling angry. “Come on,” she says as she eyes those who are injured, but she finds herself glad to see none seem seriously hurt. “Remind me never again to enter a cave system first,” she says to Torvun. “That was too close. Let’s meet up with the others and get the fuck out of here.”


	15. Chapter 15

Lexa sits on the low armrest of her couch, arms folded and mind turning in every direction.

“They are not happy, Heda,” Jass says.

“Not everyone is unhappy,” Shana counters.

“But some are unhappy enough to raise concern,” Jass says.

“What do you think, Shana?” Lexa asks.

“Those who still harbour old grudges against Azgeda will see their increased presence as hostility or favouritism. Those who have historically sided with Azgeda or who have been neutral will be unconcerned with Azgeda’s increased presence.”

“That is what I suspected,” Lexa says.

“Perhaps you should inform the ambassadors that someone is stealing tech,” Jass offers. “You can tell them that is why Azgeda patrol the streets, especially those that travelled with Clarke,” and she pauses for a moment. “They are the only ones you trust to not be responsible for the stealing.”

“It would only reconfirm for the clans hostile of Azgeda, that I favour Azgeda over them.”

“Do you not?” Jass continues.

“Yes,” Lexa says with a heavy sigh for she knows herself backed into a corner that seems to have an escape only at the periphery of her vision. “But it is to ensure that Azgeda feel as though they are not being treated as second citizens when they were at their weakest and most exploitable,” she says, and she knows from the reports from her spies that Azgeda warriors had expected to be cast out of Polis, to be sent back to their clan’s borders and only allowed to exit into neighbouring clans under supervision or permission.

Shana clears her throat lightly before beginning, “I would suspect that the many Azgeda who served under Nia’s rule, and who now serve with Roan as king, see that things are better for them, that they are not considered the violent brutes they once were.”

“They still are more violent than other clans,” Jass adds.

“Yes,” Shana says with a sigh. “But they expected to be punished for their Kwin’s actions.”

“And I will not punish a whole clan for the actions of one person,” Lexa says.

“Heda,” Gustus’ voice cuts in gruffly.

“Speak, Gustus,” Lexa says as she turns to look at the man standing by her door.

“There are no Azgeda warriors within the ranks of the Polis Guard.”

“That is true,” Lexa says.

“I do not think many would wish to forfeit their clan,” Shana cautions.

“I do not think they would, either, Gustus,” Jass adds.

“It is only a suggestion,” he says.

“Would that not only reinforce the belief that you favour Azgeda?” Jass asks. “If you were to offer them a place amongst the Polis Guard.”

“Perhaps,” Lexa says, her headache from the morning’s meeting seemingly returning without warning.

“Then there are only two options, Heda,” Shana says as regret colours her tone.

Lexa knows that Azgeda’s presence in the city has been a good distraction, that whoever is stealing tech will see more Azgeda and worry about them rather than Clarke’s absence. But she knows informing the ambassadors of the purpose to Azgeda’s increased numbers could lead to fear, to panic and to this information spreading, getting to whoever is responsible and giving them enough warning to escape before Clarke can discover the truth. Or she can keep quiet, she can let Azgeda’s presence continue to annoy and antagonise the ambassadors until they demand answers. But she fears that might even cause its own issues.

“How is the storeroom?” Lexa asks as she looks to Shana.

“Well protected, Heda,” Shana replies. “Two handmaidens guard its interior at all times,” she says. “No one has been seen near it, and the entrance in the ceiling has been kept clear for now.”

“Good,” Lexa says. “Continue to have it guarded. Do not cover its entrance, if someone is to try to sneak in, then I want them captured.”

“Understood,” Shana says as she bows her head.

Lexa has an idea then, and it isn’t something shocking, isn’t something even daring, but perhaps it is enough to begin to gauge who could be the most responsible for increasing animosity towards Azgeda.

“Who do you believe would be the one to spread animosity between Azgeda and clans unhappy with their presence,” Lexa asks, if only to get more than her own opinion regardless of how sure she is of who it might already be.

“Elios,” Gustus grunts out with a finality that Jass and Shana seem to think answer enough for themselves. “He complains, yet is unwilling to do anything to solve his issues other than to complain more.”

“I agree,” Lexa says as she stands and begins to move to her door, mind already turning to the conversation she wishes to have.

 

* * *

 

Polis tower remains a little more calm just after the midday meal is served. Servants don’t move about as busily for the few moments they have between preparing to feed all who inhabit the tower, and having to clean the feed away. Most clan members themselves are occupied with their time off, with either catching a bite to eat or of finding time to train, to walk the city or to simply relax somewhere away from the constant bickering.

Lexa passes a guard who nods her head in greeting, she passes two servants who are in the middle of changing over well used torches along one long corridor. She even passes Titus who is followed by the nightbloods, each one quietly following as he talks of strategy, of diplomacy, of things Lexa can’t help but to think the most annoying of her daily tasks.

She smiles as Jani catches her eye, the young nightblood a little taller than she once was. And for a moment Lexa wonders what it would be like to be able to relax, to treat the nightbloods brought to Polis for training with more than guarded care, with secret moments of kindness only to be dashed away with a swift kick or strike as she tries to impart upon them all she has learnt throughout her life.

Gustus shadows her steps as she continues to wind her way through Polis tower and towards where she thinks Elios might be, but as she turns a corner she finds Ilian descending the steps that twist up Polis Tower’s centre.

“Ilian,” Lexa calls out, and she sees him falter in step and turn to look over his shoulder with a look of surprise, perhaps she startled him from whatever revelry his mind was in.

“Heda?” he asks as he two steps back to return to even footing, his motions a little guarded and careful as he pivots on the balls of his feet to face her fully.

“Elios,” she begins. “Is he in his quarters?”

“Yes, Heda,” Ilian says with a nod. “I was just there.”

“You are not eating?” she asks.

“No, Heda,” Ilian says with a shake of his head. “I am trying to clear my head,” and he smiles apologetically. “I mean no disrespect,” he adds.

“None is taken,” Lexa says with her own smile as she comes to stand opposite him, eyes taking in his posture for a moment as she lets her hands clasp behind her back. “I do not envy having to stand and listen to the ambassadors all day.”

“Yet you must do the same,” Ilian counters.

“That is true,” she says. “However I am given the luxury of demanding they fall quiet when I wish,” she says with a shrug. “You must listen even if you do not wish to.”

“It is my duty,” Ilian says as his smile seems to meet the corners of his eyes a little more carefree.

“Yes,” and Lexa smiles just barely. “I will not keep you longer.”

“Good day, Heda,” Ilian bows his head as he turns for the stairs and begins to descend them once more, each second he takes light and heavy.

 

* * *

 

Ilian’s walk down Polis tower and through the city seems to exist on the border where nuisance turns to pain. He wouldn’t call each step he takes painful, but it’s enough to distract, to constantly remind him of its presence. The morning meeting had gone much the same as others had in the past. Some ambassadors would complain of any number of things, some he thinks trivial, some perhaps not so much.

Others yet again brought up Azgeda and their increased presence in the city. But it isn’t quite an increased presence, they just seem to be moving about more freely than they had just days earlier. He doesn’t blame the Azgeda warriors though, not when even he doesn’t like staying in one spot too long.

It annoys him that some of the clans seem to think antagonising Azgeda and Heda will change things, too. Though is isn’t old enough to have fought in the wars between the Coalition and Azgeda, he is old enough to remember the chaos, the destruction and the violence.

And because of that he thinks it foolish to push, foolish to prod and annoy Azgeda. Perhaps it is simply a warrior’s respect he has towards them, that unlike the many ambassadors he has come to recognise, Azgeda seem more willing to do as they say, to take action rather than spit insult and threat without standing by their word.

He remembers when word had first come that Azgeda would be sending warriors to fight against the Mountains, and they had sent more than most clans, had even done most of the fighting leading up to the final battle. Wanheda had even been the one to cure the reapers, to enter the Mountain on a suicidal mission to give the clans enough time to break through the main doors.

And where was Elios? Where were the other ambassadors?

Ilian snorts, and the sound startles a young child he moves past him.

“Sorry,” Ilian says over his shoulder as he continues to wind his way through the city streets.

Maybe he thinks himself foolish to hope that Azgeda will be different now that it is controlled by Roan. But he thinks not, if only because he knows Roan led his warriors from the front, had been the one to wrestle power from his mother who did nothing but cause chaos.

And so Ilian thinks it respect. He thinks it respect for Azgeda’s warriors. For Azgeda’s King. For those Azgeda that moved through the city as they pleased.

He nods his head in greeting at a group of warriors he passes, some from his clan, others from those he hasn’t even visited before. He even eyes a group of Azgeda warriors in the distance who all where the white of their furs proudly on display, the colour and crispness of it cutting through the swathes of browns and reds and yellows and muddy greens of all the other clans.

And perhaps that is what it is. As Ilian eyes the Azgeda, he realises that their warriors don’t seem to shy away from being seen, don’t try to blend too well into the forests, seem to regard the white of their garments as symbol and shrine.

Perhaps, he thinks, the clan meetings would run much more smoothly if each ambassador truly understood what was important just like Wanheda. Had she not bled and risked her life for her clan? Does she not truly understand what her people want simply because she lives amongst her clan’s warriors unlike others?

He sighs tiredly, can’t help but to yawn, stretch his arms around himself for a moment before coming to a stop on the side of the street.

People move past him, some tiredly, some happily, some run past, children and women and men, warriors and tradespeople all. Even pack animals, those carrying vast sums of supplies meander through the crowd led by someone, sometimes seemingly far too young to be given such responsibility, and sometimes by those who have seen generations go by.

Ilian makes note of the clans he sees, and he can’t help but to think back to when he had first seen Teben amongst the Azgeda warriors. He thinks himself no fool, but it doesn’t quite occur to him until just then that perhaps it isn’t coincidence that Wanheda has disappeared to see to an _Azgeda matter_. Perhaps it isn’t coincidence that Azgeda warriors are seemingly more prominently displayed throughout Polis streets. Or maybe he is simply being paranoid, simply seeing pattern where their is none.

But Ilian hasn’t survived the reapers, the Mountain Men, or even Nia’s cunning cruelty by ignoring his instincts.

And so he takes a moment to eye each clan he spots, he gauges how many warriors seem to linger nearby, and he thinks it no accident that he now notices that Azgeda far outweigh any other clan’s presence this close to the dungeon entrance.

 

* * *

 

Clarke can’t remember the last time she had this much dust in her furs. Perhaps she has never had so much dust in it before. But it stinks. A slight musk, something dusty that makes her nose itch, lingers in the air around her. She even feels like she borders right on the edge of a sneeze that never seems to come, no matter how long she looks into the burning fire before her.

She gave up trying to dust out her furs hours ago, their state needing for more attention than she is able to give to them while on the move. Even Entani who grumbles quietly beside her seems to resign herself to the same fact.

A warrior shuffles past them both, the woman who Clarke had seen fall only to be picked up by another. She walks with the barest hints of a limp that Clarke thinks more due to the bandage that wraps around her calf rather than any wound she suffered.

Clarke’s mind turns to Teben then, and she wonders if the woman had hoped it to be a trap, or if those they hunted had merely been prepared, had had scouts in the forests well enough hidden to be unnoticed. But Clarke also remembers the bits of tech she saw, of the fist sized canisters she can’t quite place and the mesh of the radio mouthpieces, and perhaps that is explanation enough, perhaps that is all that she needs to know.

“I don’t think it was a trap,” Clarke says as she stifles a yawn.

“You do not?” Teben asks as she leans back against the felled tree they lean against.

“No,” Clarke answers with a shrug. “We know they’re using tech,” she pauses for a moment to look up into the darkening sky in search of answers to her many questions “I saw radio pieces,” she continues. “I think we were spotted, maybe they even used tech to help spot us. But then they radioed, told the others we were coming.”

“And that gave them enough time to destroy any evidence and flee,” Entani finishes.

“Yeah,” Clarke says.

They both fall into a comfortable silence then, and Clarke turns her attention to the other warriors that move about. She sees Jenma sorting through supplies, and for a moment she can’t help but to feel just a little awkward.

And Clarke feels that awkwardness for she thinks Jenma older than her, she knows her to be more experienced, too. But merely from the things she was thrust into ever since crashing to the ground, she has somehow been given more responsibilities than most would ever dream to have.

Clarke doesn’t think Jenma minds, not much anyway. But still, she knows it important to reward those who have served with her, who have followed her when it wasn’t expected, and who have fought by her side in skirmishes and battles and acts of violence too many to count.

“You are thinking,” Entani says quietly as she nudges her with an elbow.

Clarke hums something noncommittal in response as she looks from Jenma, frown now in place as she tries to unravel a tent hastily packed.

Entani prods her again, this time a little more curiously.

“Nothing much,” Clarke says as she looks to the healer beside her.

“Nothing much?”

“Yeah,” Clarke finds a smile playing across her own lips as Entani seems to look off into the distance and ponder for a long moment.

In the silence Clarke follows Entani’s gaze to find her looking at Bronat who seems to be struggling in explanation of something, some idea, some theory, all the while Leeton looks on with an expression Clarke thinks half full of feigned interest and mirth.

“It is strange,” Entani says as she pulls her eyes from the scene before them.

“What is?” Clarke asks.

“How far we have come,” she answers with a smile.

“Yeah,” Clarke finds herself agreeing, if only because she thinks it true.

“I remember when we heard reports, Ontari and I,” she says. “Of a ball of fire crashing into our lands,” she adds. “And then a scout returned with your body, covered in snow, half frozen to death and beaten so badly we thought a great beast must have come upon you.”

Clarke can’t quite help but to feel something sad pit in her stomach, she can’t tell if it’s a sadness for the life she never lived, or for days when she had little responsibility, had never known the terrors of the ground.

“And now we’re here,” Clarke says as she shakes her thoughts and sweeps her hand out around them.

“Yes,” Entani says with a smile.

“How’s your ribs?” Clarke asks then, gaze eyeing the way Entani seems to always sit a little more stiffly than she had only a year earlier.

“Ok,” Entani says.

“Just ok?”

“Different,” she says with a shrug. “It hurt to do anything, at first,” she adds. “To cough, to laugh, to move, twist, sit or stand.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke can’t help but to wince at the severeness of Entani’s broken ribs from the explosion, of how shrapnel had punctured her torso and of how, in her frantic attempt to subdue Pike and the woman who had held them captive, she had only caused more damage, had pulled muscle and sinew and tendon in ways they should not have been pulled.

“But I am alive,” Entani smiles.

“Yeah,” Clarke says with her own smile. “You are.”

They both hear a quiet horn toot in the darkening light, and as they, and others nearby, turn to the sound, they see shapes beginning to trudge out of the trees and into the clearing they have claimed for the night.

“They are back,” Entani says as she stands with the barest hints of a groan. “And with good timing,” she holds a hand out for Clarke to grasp.

Clarke smiles her own smile as she lets Entani help her up.

And so Clarke and Entani begin to make their way to the fire pit dug into the ground as Ontari and Torvun, and those who had accompanied them on the hunt for the night, carry the dead deer that will provide them with a welcomed meal for the night.


	16. Chapter 16

Clarke comes to the Azgeda camp in the forests surrounding Polis sometime in the very early morning. The sky is still dark, but the soon to be sun seems to be spreading the very first tendrils of light into the sky. Warriors move about quietly so as not to wake those that sleep, those that rest. She passes a few who stand guard, they share a quick nod and Clarke tries to fight the yawn pulling at the corners of her lips.

Before long Clarke and those that follow her file into the single large tent that dominates the centre of the Azgeda camp. A war table sits in its centre covered in a map. Bones and furs, trophies of great beasts hunted, decorate the tent’s interior, and for a moment Clarke can’t help but to think the tent’s appearance uncomfortably similar to how Nia had decorated her own.

“So,” Clarke begins as she comes to stand beside the table, gaze moving from person to person around her. “We’ve got a problem,” and she watches as Jenma takes in a heavy breath, she watches as Ontari’s lips purse.

“Yes,” Ontari says.

“We didn’t get any proof,” Clarke continues and she sees Jenma curse herself for whatever thought crosses her mind.

“Is the ambush proof enough?” Jenma asks to no one in particular, but her gaze seems to settle on Leeton who nods along.

“Maybe,” but Clarke doesn’t think it enough to sway any clans to whatever suspicions they have.

“It will not be enough,” Torvun says. “We have nothing but suspicions and the word of a prisoner who, for all we know, has lied to us repeatedly.”

“The facts are,” Clarke cuts in for she can see the conversation ready to devolve into pointless speculation. “The facts are we have no idea what these people are planning,” and she pauses as she begins to sift through anything she has experienced that might shed some light on what next she should do.

“We know they experiment with tech,” Entani offers into the silence. “That they are willing to kill to protect their plans.”

“Correct,” Clarke nods her agreement at that. “The Commander’s told us that there was an explosion, and now we’ve been in one,” she bites her lip in thought. “Worst case scenario, they try and blow something up.”

“Why?” Leeton asks, and Clarke looks at the other woman to see her crossing her arms as she eyes the map before them.

“Why not ask our prisoner?” Bronat offers, and Clarke meets his gaze to see his usual jovial nature replaced by a seriousness, at least for this meeting.

“She’s potentially lied to us once already,” Clarke says. “I don’t know if we can trust Teben anymore.”

“It would be unwise,” Torvun says.

“We must flush them out,” Ontari says simply. “We have been led where they please,” and she seems to sneer at her own words. “We need to make them react to our actions instead of us reacting to what we discover.”

“I agree,” Jenma says as she flashes a quick smile to Ontari.

Clarke’s gaze settles on the model of Polis that dominates the map strewn across the table. She feels her frustrations growing with each passing second and she can’t quite help but to think herself trapped, stuck in place with little to do but try to find a pattern where none is seen.

Torvun’s hand closes over hers from where she grips her knife strapped to her thigh. He squeezes for only a moment, but Clarke finds it all she needs to realises she must have been clenching her fist tightly, must have been letting her frustrations show more than she had meant to let show.

And so she takes in a deep breath, settles her beating heart and she lets her eyes close for only a moment.

“We tell the ambassadors,” Clarke begins as she opens her eyes. She sees the uncertainty in Jenma’s gaze, she sees Ontari’s head tilt to the side slightly, and she feels Bronat’s surprise from the way his eyes widen a fraction. “We tell them that someone is planning to attack Polis,” and Clarke pauses, if only to think a little more.

“And if whoever this is does not actually plan to attack Polis?” Entani asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” Clarke says. “We need them to make a move, and I know the ambassadors. Word will spread. We’ll spook whoever it is,” and she looks from the model of Polis and then to a skull laid across one corner of the map. “I want our warriors to fill the streets.”

“More than they already are?” Entani asks.

“Yes,” Clarke nods. “Have them stationed at every entry into Polis. Check everyone, I don’t care who they are. Someone’s stealing tech and we’ll catch them if they’re smuggling it out of the city.”

“What of Heda?” Jenma asks.

“I’ll deal with her,” Clarke says. “She’ll understand. But I want to spook whoever it is. I’m sure someone here in Polis is watching us. If they see that they can’t get out then they’ll panic, they’ll do something stupid.”

“And the warriors here?” Jenma asks.

“Keep them in reserve,” Clarke says, “actually,” and she pauses, looks away for a moment. “Bring them to the city walls. You won’t be able to enter, but it’ll shake things up,” and she nods to herself.

“Are you sure?” Jenma asks a little more cautiously. “Some clans will not be pleased.”

Clarke doesn’t blame Jenma for bringing up the other clans, for she knows how it will look. And yet, she thinks it the only way forward.

“It will show them, and whoever is doing this, just how serious we’re taking this threat. And if something does happen, I want us to be ready to move on it as soon as possible.”

“I agree with Clarke,” Entani offers.

“Me too,” Leeton adds with a nod.

“Good,” Clarke nods, partly to herself. “We keep patrolling the streets of Polis, but we start searching anyone trying to leave. And Jenma, you’re in charge of our warriors outside Polis. If we manage to spook whoever it is, be ready to intercept if I call you on the radio.”

“Understood, Clarke,” Jenma answers with her own nod.

 

* * *

 

Walking through Polis in what seemed like the dead of night was always an odd sensation. The few who walk the streets, Clarke assumes, must be those who prepares foods and drinks for the morning. Some eye the Azgeda she walks with curiously, some a little more hostile, others from clans more friendly to Azgeda even smile or nod as they walk past.

Clarke finds herself walking down a main street Ontari and Entani had both left her to head to Azgeda sector with the others leaving just her and Torvun to walk the rest of the way to Polis tower.

Clarke doesn’t mind the quiet though. She finds it calming in a way to walk the streets at this quiet hour. And she does for she can take the time to experience the world without worry. And it is without worry for needing to be aware of her surroundings when she rides through the forest, her senses at least always partly focusing on any sound she might hear lest she be attacked by beast. And she can’t ever let her guard down when she travels through Azgeda lands either for she must be aware of the ever changing weather, of the dangers snow and of the freezing chill. But here, on the streets of Polis, she thinks she can let her guard down just a little more than anywhere else. At least for a short while.

Torvun walks behind her, each step he takes more quiet than she would expect. And though she can’t quite hear him, she finds herself in sync with his presence, she finds herself able to feel rather than to see or hear his movements.

Before long Clarke finds herself walking up the steps to the main entrance of Polis tower. Guards stand at the entrance, each one with spear in hand as their heads turn and follow her as she approaches. She sees them begin to ease the tension from their shoulders when they recognise her, when they recognise the furs, the scars across her face, and even the skull sewn into the back of her clothing, whose weight has become something she finds comforting.

And so, as the doors to Polis tower thump shut behind her with a quietness she thinks purposeful, Clarke finds her feet already taking her to the lift that will rise up and up and into the sky.

 

* * *

 

After days of travel, Clarke has only one thing on her mind. A hot bath, a relaxing night to do little more than let her mind run free for as long as she could steal. But, as she stands in her washroom, as she eyes the rack that stands aside from the wash basin, she finds it completely void of the rich towels she brings with her from Azgeda’s farthest corners.

Her eyes narrow a fraction, her lips purse and she tries to remember if she has forgotten to bring them, if she never unpacked them after first returning to Polis.

But that isn’t so for she remembers it clearly.

Clarke tries to think of who it could be, of who would dare sneak into her quarters and remove her towels. And she wonders, if only for a moment, whether it is one of Lexa’s handmaidens, if it is an over zealous servant, or a nosy guard, perhaps even a sp—

No.

She shakes her head as realisation dawns on her and so Clarke turns and makes her way out of her washroom and makes her way out of her quarters.

 

* * *

 

Clarke treads slowly, each step she takes purposeful and poised, her bare feet familiar with the stone underfoot. She picks up each slightly sound that spreads out around her, the time she has spent stalking prey in the wilds of the Azgeda plains, and the depths of the Trikru forests enough to hone her hearing further than she could ever imagine.

Torches still burn at this early hour, some more recently changes than others who burn their last little light before being replaced in the morning. The flames send shadows across the floor, they dance and flicker and stretch out in every direction as she walks forward.

But Clarke hears the quiet drip in the distance, she hears the lightness in step and so she takes in a deep breath, something careful, purposeful and she feels the expansion of her lungs as she begins to move from shadow to shadow.

Her gaze settles on a woman who walks down the hall. And it’s times like this, times when none other dare tread the halls that Clarke finds herself lost in how different Lexa appears, when she wears little armour, when all she keeps with her is a knife that seems permanently strapped to her thigh or tucked against her body in some ingenious way.

But perhaps Clarke has let her thoughts stray too far for she sees Lexa’s steps falter, she sees her sense her presence, prepare to react, to adju—

Clarke lunges, she flies from the dark of a dancing shadow and she crashes against Lexa as her hand reaches out for purchase in the towel.

But Lexa rolls, doesn’t even seem to care about her state of undress, or simply reacts without thought or concern. And Clarke knows it to be instinct, muscle memory, unthought and unplanned action, for Lexa flips them over, she pins her to the ground and presses her knee to her throat, one hand poised to strike.

“You will have to do better than that if you are to sneak up on me,” Lexa says as her eyes seem to flash in the flickering flame light.

“I knew it,” Clarke hisses, and she tries to feign outrage, tries to feign indignation.

“You knew what?” Lexa says as she lifts her chin, seems smirk with the simple quirking of an eyebrow.

“I knew you were stealing my towels,” Clarke says as she sits, one hand already brushing over the hem of the towel still wrapped around Lexa’s body.

Lexa smiles at that, the motion more carefree than Clarke often gets to see, and then she leans down, brushes her lips against Clarke’s forward before pulling away with a quiet chuckle.

“It is not my fault your towels were simply mixed up with the others.”

“Oh,” and Clarke pushes Lexa off her as she rises. “Is that so?” and she wipes her now damp hands on her own furs to dry them. “Then how’d my towels go missing?” she challenges.

“I do not know,” Lexa shrugs. “They are the softest. Perhaps a servant mistook them as being mine.”

“A very likely tale,” Clarke scoffs as she reaches out, squeezes Lexa’s hand for a moment before they begin to walk the way Lexa had originally been travelling.

“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa nods to herself, but she falls quiet for only a moment to eye her from the corner of her eye.

“You want to know how my mission went,” and Clarke stifles a yawn.

“Yes, but it can wait until the morning,” Lexa says.

“What makes you think that?” Clarke lets her tone lighten in jest just a little as she crosses her arms. “I might have something really important to tell you that can’t wait.”

“It does not appear as though you do, Clarke,” Lexa says with another nod.

“Yeah, well,” Clarke thinks that it can’t help but to let even herself think over what she plans do to for the rest of the night. “You’re right.”

“As I suspected.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to the sun’s heat brushing her cheek. It takes her a moment longer to remember the dream she had been dreaming, and as she recalls, as she lets her mind turn back the moments, she finds it odd that her sleeping mind at times goes to moments in her past she would rather forget.

But she knows it a fruitless endeavour to worry about things she can no longer change and so she lets her eyes open to the light of an early morning.

She can’t remember how they decided that they’d share a bed, she can’t even remember it being a conscious decision, but as she looks around herself, she finds a contentedness beginning to take hold.

Lexa lies on her side facing her, eyes closed and expression calm. A single strand of hair has somehow found its way across her face and now rests against her lip, each breath Lexa takes enough for the strand of hair to dance for a moment before settling. Despite her waking, Clarke thinks it still early though, for she can’t hear the usual bustle of servants moving about Polis tower, she can’t even hear the sounds of the city that normal filter up from the streets so far below.

“You are staring,” though Lexa’s eyes remain closed, and though her voice comes quiet, Clarke thinks Lexa must be awake, must have been awake for long enough that sleep no longer clouds her mind.

“You’re awake,” Clarke whispers, perhaps for the moment, unwilling to break the illusion of peacefulness that has settled around them both.

“And you are staring,” Lexa repeats.

“Am I?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Lexa nods an answer as she breathes in deeply before exhaling as her eyes open.

“We need to talk,” Clarke says and she peers past Lexa and into the sky from the window to judge how far the sun has risen.

Lexa smiles, and it’s a small little motion that Clarke thinks tinged with something between acceptance and sadness. But the emotion vanishes before she can analyse it. And so Lexa nods, perhaps as much to herself as to Clarke.

“We were ambushed,” Clarke says as she rolls onto her back briefly before sitting and letting the covers pool around her waist. “They were in the caves like Teben said, but they got away.”

“How?” Lexa asks as she rises from the bed, one hand settling the sleep clothes she wears as she begins moving to her day’s clothes laid out on a desk near the bed.

“They used tech,” Clarke says as she begins sorting through her own belongings. “No one was hurt,” she adds. “But they were ready for us, or had planned for something like this to happen for a while.”

“You were able to find no one?” Lexa asks and Clarke sees a slight annoyance in the woman’s eyes, but she knows it not because of her failings, but rather the lack of answer.

“No,” and Clarke shrugs and shakes her head. “No one, not even any tech. It’s buried under rock now.”

Lexa looks away in thought, seems to consider something before meeting her gaze once more.

“You have a plan, do you not, Clarke?”

“Yes,” Clarke says. “I do.”

“And it is?”

“You won’t like it.”

Lexa simply raises an eyebrow at that, perhaps the motion just as intrigued as it is guarded.

Clarke takes in a deep breath, if only because she doesn’t quite know if Lexa will actually approve of the plan she has come up with. But she thinks it the only thing she can do to force the hand of whoever it is behind tech being stolen. But perhaps for a split second, she can’t help but to wonder if all this is some sick misunderstanding, that the last few days has simply been a waste of time and worry.

“We need to tell the ambassadors what’s been going on,” Clarke says as she turns to face Lexa fully.

Lexa’s head tilts ever so slightly to the side and Clarke suspects Lexa thinks over what she has heard and whatever she has seen in the last few days.

“Why?” Lexa questions.

“We don’t know who’s responsible,” Clarke begins. “If we tell the ambassadors then word will spread, and it will get back to whoever is doing this,” she pauses to make sense of the thoughts in her mind. “Whoever is doing this will panic. So far we’ve been keeping things quiet, and that’s been good for us because panic hasn’t spread. But it’s been good for them, too. They know they can get away with things because they aren’t being watched. But if we tell everyone on our terms, then they’ll be caught flatfooted without a plan for how to deal with this.”

Lexa looks away in thought then, and Clarke sees the thoughts beginning to flash behind Lexa’s eyes as she considers and gauges strategy and outcome.

“And your Azgeda warriors?” Lexa asks. “They are to remain in the city?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “But they won’t be alone. Have the city guard begin to patrol, begin to search people moving about,” she says.

“Whoever was at their camp site has still not been found,” Lexa adds. “They will try to escape the city with the tech they have stolen when they realise everyone will be searching for them.”

“Exactly,” and Clarke finds a smile beginning to spread across her lips as Lexa seems to come to the same conclusions as she has. “And we’ll catch them. They’ve been taking advantage of us keeping this quiet for too long.”

But Lexa sighs heavily at that, and Clarke can’t help but to feel a reprimand or some sort of denial soon to come.

“What?” Clarke asks, her arms crossing over her chest as she moves around her side of the bed until she comes face to face with Lexa.

“The ambassadors will not approve of Azgeda taking such an increased role in Polis’ safety.”

“Screw the ambassadors,” and Clarke jerks her chin outwards. “Azgeda and Trikru have been the ones doing the heavy lifting for months, maybe even years. At least since the Mountain.”

Lexa pauses for a moment and once more Clarke sees her thinking and judging. “We will inform them together,” she begins. “And you will convince them of your theories,” and Lexa seems to become content with whatever thought begins to enter her mind. “There are ambassadors who side with Azgeda, who have always sided with Azgeda,” and she nods to herself, “they will be easy to convince, and they will help you convince the others.”

“Good,” Clarke says and perhaps for a moment she lets herself feel victorious at them both having come to an agreement as easily as they have.

 

* * *

 

Lexa sits in her throne, hands resting on the armrests, fingers drumming against the weathered wood as she continues to watch the conversation move from ambassador to ambassador. It doesn’t surprise her that some were more quiet in their accusations now that Clarke has returned, and it doesn’t surprise her that others seem relieved, seem happy with Azgeda’s returned presence to the city.

But as she continues to watch, as she continues to glance from face to face, and at times perhaps lingering a little too long on Clarke, she doesn’t forget meeting Ilian not so long ago, she doesn’t forget the way he carried himself, the way he seemed to take steps just a little cautiously.

And she is no fool. She knows her suspicions to be as much false assumption as cautious wariness. Perhaps she should have told Clarke of her suspicions, too, but she can’t risk Clarke letting slip her suspicions, not yet, not when she hasn’t quite decided for herself.

And so Lexa settles for watching, for taking in Ilian’s movements every time Elios speaks. And she knows she will watch with guarded curiosity when Clarke begins to talk of what has been happening.

Lexa spares a moment to take in the others that fill the throne room, and her gaze settles on the nightbloods who stand aside, who watch, some more curious than others. She takes in the guards that stand either side of the main doors, and she watches the servants who filter in and out, who bring refreshments for those that call for them.

But a silence settles over the room, and Lexa’s attention snaps back to Clarke who rises from her chair, her gaze steely and her eyes iron as she looks from ambassador to ambassador who sits before her.

“Your absence was noted, Clarke” someone says, and Lexa’s gaze snaps to Jetta who leans forward in her chair, the woman’s bluntness perhaps refreshing insofar as it always let Lexa know where Jetta on topics.

“That is why I’m here,” Clarke answers simply, and Lexa can’t help but admire the way Clarke seems to dismiss Jetta’s intrusion with little care or thought. Lexa continues to watch as Clarke looks around to those that stare at her, and as the silence grows, Lexa can’t help but to think that some part of Clarke must relish the suspense that builds, but then Clarke smiles, the expression sweet, too kind, and perhaps just a little insincere. “I know some of you aren’t happy with Azgeda patrolling the streets of Polis,” she begins as she steps further from her chair until she dominates the centre of the room.

“We are not,” someone says from behind Clarke, but she seems to ignore the interruption, or at least dismiss it as little more than a nuisance for she shrugs, doesn’t even turn to face her interruptor and instead continues to look squarely at the ambassadors she faces.

“Some of you may have seen,” Clarke continues, “that when I arrived, my Azgeda warriors had a prisoner,” and Lexa sees Kahlan and Tahgo both nod their heads, the two ambassadors clearly having less issue with Azgeda than the others.

“May I ask why?” Tahgo voices, and Lexa can’t help but to feel a twitching in her lips as Clarke’s smile turns more genuine as she meets the young ambassador’s question with warmth.

“That’s what I’m here to discuss,” Clarke continues. “We were attacked,” Clarke says. “On our way to Polis we were attacked in the tunnels near the Mountain.”

“Why?” someone asks, and as some others voice their curiosity Lexa finds her gaze moving to Elios who leans a little forward in his seat, and then to Ilian who stands stiff and tense behind him.

“We discovered that people were stealing tech,” Clarke continues. “They were doing it in secret. And when we discovered this, they attacked us, tried to stop us from discovering more.”

“But you found more?” Kahlan asks.

“Yes,” Clarke says. “That’s why I was gone,” and she gestures outwards and in the direction of the caves further north, but as she does so, Lexa sees Ilian’s eyes narrow a fraction. “We discovered a camp hidden in caves. But they anticipated our arrival, or had plans already set up to escape if someone discovered them.”

“And what are these people doing with tech?” Elios asks, curiosity clearing colouring his tone.

“Experimenting with it,” Clarke shrugs. “Trying to discover its secrets.”

“I do not blame them,” Jetta says, and Lexa’s gaze snaps to the Lake Clan’s ambassador to find her head tilted to the side. “Is it not too far fetched to believe that other clans wish to use tech as much as Azgeda and Skaikru do?”

“No,” Clarke says with a shake of her head. “It isn’t so far fetched.”

“So?” Jetta continues.

“The problem is that they’re stealing,” and Clarke jabs a finger towards Jetta. “But that’s not all. They’ve tried to kill my people twice now,” and she lets her lip turn into a snarl. “A punishable act by any clan’s standards,” she says. “Do you remember the last time a clan tried to use tech? Do you remember how dangerous it could be if it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Yes, Clarke,” Elios interrupts. “We _do_ remember what happened when one clan tried controlling it all,” Lexa would have let her eyes roll if she was anyone else. “I agree with Jetta,” he says with a nod. “I do not blame a clan for trying to steal tech to—”

“You can not be serious,” Kahlan says, and Lexa watches as Kahlan pauses for only a moment to see if Clarke will continue to speak before she steps forward from where she sits. “We know how dangerous tech is if it falls into the wrong hands,” she continues as she flicks her hair over her shoulder subconsciously. “We know the damage it can cause if those who wield it wish us harm.”

“You are proving my point,” Elios says. “It is not good for one clan to control all of it.”

“That clan is Skaikru,” Kahlan snaps. “Tahgo,” and she gestures to the younger man. “Skaikru has helped your clan grow crops where you were once unable to do so,” he nods. “Azgeda is starting to grow seed in their plains, where once they could grow nothing but tasteless roots— I mean no offence, Clarke.”

“None is taken.”

“You think Skaikru will always be willing to do for us what we ask?” Elios snaps. “They usurp our own self reliance, they make us rely on their tech, on things only they can control. One day they will demand more, and when that day comes, we will be able to do nothing but bow our heads and let them take what they want lest they throw our clans into ruin.”

“That won’t happen,” Clarke snaps as she rounds on Elios, and Lexa thinks the time for her to intervene fast approaching.

“And how do you know that?” Elios spits.

“Because I won’t let it,” she says only for Elios to bark out a laugh. “You forget, Elios,” Clarke continues, “that I didn’t bow down to Nia’s wishes. I could have followed her rule, let her take control of the tech the Mountain and Skaikru controlled, yet I didn’t. I fought for the Coalition, for the clans. For you. And for peace.”

“And when you are gone?” Elios says as he leans forward, his gaze hardening.

“Are you threatening Azgeda?” Tahgo says as he rises to his feet, one hand falling to the knife on his hip and his own guard, a keen and quiet woman shadowing his steps. Lexa sees even Kahlan and her guard begin to shift in posture as they prepare to reinforce Clarke and Tahgo if things turn sour.

“Y—”

“Enough,” Lexa’s voice cuts into the commotion. “Return to your seats,” Lexa says as her gaze moves from each person who has now moved from where they once had been. “All of you,” she finishes as she meets Clarke’s narrowed eyes.

Lexa lets the silence settle, and in the time it does, she finds herself cataloguing the sides clans are falling to, and it doesn’t surprise her that Azgeda, Delfikru and Blue Cliffs all side together, in part because of their shared pasts, and in part because their clans have always struggled with securing supplies for the harsher seasons.

Nor does it surprise Lexa that Elios, and perhaps the whole of Glowing Forest, seems not to take Skaikru’s help of tech as seriously, if only because the forest clans have always had, at least in some way, greater success in taming their lands. But the clans that remain silent are perhaps just as telling, for Lexa knows they will dare not choose side until they are certain of the victor.

“It is not one clan that steals tech,” Lexa says into the silence. “But a group of rebels, or bandits, people who have thrown aside their allegiance to the Coalition and who threaten to sow dissent amongst allies,” and Lexa takes the opportunity to look at each ambassador carefully, and, from the corner of her eye she even takes in the way Ilian’s face seems more blank than it normally is. “We can all agree that tech is valuable,” she says. “And with Skaikru’s help, perhaps more so than our stores of grain, of pelts, of meats dried over months, of medicines that keep us healthy, and of furs that keep us warm in the winter months,” and she nods to no one in particular. “The crime of stealing any one of those supplies in such large numbers is serious. But the crime of stealing tech?” Lexa pauses, lets her gaze once more roam over each and every face she sees. “Punishable by death.”


End file.
